


Rhythms & Rhymes

by Remembrance



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballroom Dancing, High Class Parties, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poetry, Snow, Time Skips, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 00:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14008527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remembrance/pseuds/Remembrance
Summary: “Ah, but… you did not answer my question.” Kuroo did not mind the eye contact with Kenma, if anything – he was sure it was special, to some degree. “I did not ask if you were published, I merely asked if you have written a poem. If you have read every single one of my poems, as you say you have, then surely you must have tried it yourself at some point.” They continued their waltz. “Even if it was just scribbles on the side of a page, no?”





	1. The First Verse

**Author's Note:**

> Hey~ I'm really proud of this one. It's really different from most of my fics...? It's really pushed me, as a writer, to expand myself, to stretch myself a bit more, and I love a project that can get me going like that. I think it'll be around 8-10ish chapters? Not sure yet! I will be updating every weekend, though, so! I hope you enjoy it. Shoutout Nikooki (check out their art: [twitter](https://twitter.com/nikooki_kyuu/) / [tumblr](http://nikooki.tumblr.com/)), my beta. 
> 
> Enjoy. <3

_But in seeing connection,  
The cat feels his heart beat.   
Like an ancient reflection,   
He remembers the taste of sweet.   
  
Yes, the man had made mistakes   
But it was the cat that had caused earthquakes.   
In the reflection of a frozen lake   
The cat’s fiery anger feels fake.   
  
He remembers the dances   
Movement, rush, music - Heat.   
Warm meals in a forest glade they eat.   
  
All their little touches and advances.   
The first time he let himself fall.   
The first time he gave it his all._    
  


* * *

  
Rhythms & Rhymes   
Chapter 1: The First Verse   
  


* * *

  
  
 “It is tonight, Kuroo. We must get you ready.”   
   
 Kuroo forced his eyes open as he muttered a mumbled, “Yeah.”   
   
 Kageyama nodded with a slight smile.   
   
 “I am not used to seeing you so upbeat, let alone awake at this ungodly hour.”   
   
 “My Sunfire usually wakes me up around this time—with his kicking in his sleep.”   
   
 Kuroo rolled his eyes as he walked down the halls of the great estate. He turned to the kitchen, where a modest breakfast table had been set up for him. He had a fancy dining hall, of course, but there was no point in having his servant set that up for three people. “Sunfire, eh?”   
   
 “You get to meet him tonight.”   
   
 “Truly?” Kuroo teased.   
   
 Kageyama gave a firm nod.   
   
 Kuroo hid the urge to grin. Sunfire. Kuroo was sure in six or seven years Kageyama would look back and cringe at the nickname. Now, however, he was a fool in love. Married? Engaged? Newlyweds? Kuroo was not sure of the specifics. If Kageyama was still with Sunfire in six years, Kuroo would bring it up – and watch Kageyama recoil. He was sure of it.   
   
 “Ah, Master!” Sugawara’s voice chimed as he put down two plates. Simple plates, really. There were pancakes—the flat and thin kind, browned lightly—topped with fruits. There were also two bowls of some kind of yogurt.   
   
 Kuroo was not too familiar with the foods of the Island, but he found he enjoyed it. The yogurt was tart, but a drizzle of local lavender-infused honey was the perfect touch. “Not going to join us?”   
   
 “Ah.” Sugawara shook his head. “It is improper for a servant to dine with his master in front of guests.”   
   
 “Kageyama is not a guest. He is a fool.”   
   
 Kageyama gawked.   
   
 Sugawara laughed. “Perhaps another time, Master. There is also tea.”   
   
 Kuroo nodded. “We will help ourselves, thank you.”   
   
 Sugawara bowed lightly before excusing himself.   
   
 Kageyama took a seat and began pouring himself tea from a tall pot into the short and stout porcelain cups.   
   
 Kuroo also took a seat, humming. “The pancakes are interesting here.” He grabbed a fork and knife and cut a small piece off. “On the Mainland, it is considered rude to brown the pancakes at all.”   
   
 “There are more eggs in these,” Kageyama explained. He glanced up. “Truly, you have never been to the Island before?”   
   
 “Only in my youth,” Kuroo admitted. He was used to a thick, sweet syrup to eat his pancakes with, but he found the juices of the strawberries to be nice too. He had seen Sugawara make it once, a syrup of strawberries and lemon juice. Sweet, yet tart.   
   
 Kageyama poured him a cup of tea.   
   
 Kuroo gave thanks. “So, this party we are going to. It is a charity event?”   
   
 “The master of the mansion, Ser Saeko Tanaka, throws parties every couple of months.” Kageyama grabbed a spoon of the yogurt, topped in grains, nuts, and seeds, and took a bite. He chewed a bit before swallowing. “It is by donation to attend, and all the nobles do. The mayor as well. It is thanks to her our hospital is well staffed, and our schools have proper books from the Mainland.”   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “And this Saeko is the mother of your dearest warmest loveliest Sunfire?”   
   
 “Yes.” Kageyama smiled quietly. “My parents were very… absent, in my childhood. She practically raised me, alongside her two kids. I am very fortunate.”   
   
 “Hm.” Kuroo nodded slowly. “Well then, what must we prepare for… exactly?”   
   
 “Well.” Kageyama frowned. “The Island is not like the Mainland, Kuroo. Our formal events are… different. Men do not wear suits, women do not wear dresses—you are more than welcome to wear your suit, though. It is seen as… well, exotic, to see someone dressed in the high class Mainland style. There are procedures to go over, and other things we must do.”   
   
 “Like hunt,” Kuroo added. “If we do not hunt, we will not have food. And your poor shot will not get us lunch.”   
   
 Kageyama scowled. “I… do my best.”   
   
 “Do you feed your Sunfire with your poor shots?”   
   
 “My Sunfire is an excellent marksman.” Kageyama’s lips quipped up in a smile. “I have seen him take down two bears charging at him.”   
   
 Kuroo whistled. “Too bad you cannot say the same.”   
   
 Kageyama winced.   
   
 Kuroo laughed. “I tease, Kageyama. Come. This is a strange land, this is.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo had memories of the frozen winters, howling snow like a scream in his ear, the big jackets, several layers of cotton and fur-lined coats… And the little hats that looked like bags over their heads. Ushankas, they were called, leather hats with flaps for the ears. Ushankas was their proper name, but Kuroo still referred to them as bag hats. They covered his ears, made the screaming wind a little more bearable. He wished he could capture this feeling, transcribe it into his craft, write a poem—let it be long and frigid, like winter.   
   
 But he had no quill in his hand.   
   
 No.   
   
 A rifle.   
   
 The barrel was long, and ammunition was inserted from the muzzle. It was not like the rifles he used on the Mainland, which had grooves in the inside of the barrel. No, this one was a smoothbore gun, and not the kind he was used to. Still, while Kageyama could barely get a single shot to hit—Kuroo fired.   
   
 The pang of his gun was combined with a jut of steam.   
   
 A rabbit squeaked before crumbling.   
   
 Kageyama’s lips pursed tight.   
   
 “You always were a poor shot, Kageyama.”   
   
 Kageyama bristled slightly. “We should hunt another.”   
   
 “No need.” Kuroo walked towards the rabbit. “This one was fat. It will make a fine stew for the three of us, with the vegetables Sugawara grows in my uncle’s garden – we will be fine.”   
   
 “Your garden,” Kageyama corrected.   
   
 Kuroo stilled for a moment before he grabbed the rabbit. “My garden.” He let it dawn on him, trying to force the realisation, the truth, to sink in. Still it felt so distant. Kageyama offered a bag for the rabbit and Kuroo let it down gently inside. Kuroo laughed proudly. “That truly was a marvelous shot, no? I am a wonder! You, Kageyama, can always try to improve your shooting too.”   
   
 “I will stick to poetry.” Kageyama tied the bag and lifted it over his shoulder. “Is this any time to be switching my craft—after I received an honour of the King’s Approval?”   
   
 Kuroo laughed as he began walking home. “Indeed – it was a havoc when an Islander’s name came up to win the award. You know how they are on the Mainland.”   
   
 Kageyama walked alongside him, glancing over. “Did you ever deal with that havoc?”   
   
 “Me? No. I left this little town before I was schooled. And I went to the finest schools in the Mainland from a young age, so—naturally—the schools take the credit for my success. It made everyone forget I was an Islander.”   
   
 Kageyama smiled a little. “Five time winner of the King’s Approval. You hold the kingdom’s record.”   
   
 “Enough of me,” Kuroo cut in. “What about you? It seems you are finally making progress in the world of poets.”   
   
 “Yes.” Kageyama nodded. “Only a few poets ever get the King’s Approval. They will now sing my name, study my works in classes, do garbage analyses of my meanings.”   
   
 Kuroo let out another laugh.   
   
 Kageyama’s smile quipped a little bigger. “I could feel that poem… when I was writing it. It was as though the floorboards moved, the walls expanded, the ceiling was nonexistent… It transcended my body, it felt like.”   
   
 “Ah.” Kuroo nodded. “A good poem always feels like the room moves with you.”   
   
 Kageyama nodded firmly.   
   
 Kuroo glanced upwards, thinking to himself. It had been a long time, had it not? Since he had felt that feeling, since he had created with youth and vibrancy, vim and vigor? Kuroo makes his sigh silent, just as his eyes fall on his uncle’s home in the distance.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 When they entered the large three-storey mansion, they called out for Sugawara with his nickname. Suga joined them shortly; and, upon seeing the size of the rabbit, asked Kageyama if he had landed the shot. Kageyama’s annoyance was coupled with Sugawara’s teasing laughter. Kuroo grinned from ear to ear.   
   
 Sugawara got to work with a sharp knife, skinning the rabbit expertly. He informed that the fur would fetch a price in town, and Kuroo hummed at the thought of bartering.   
   
 Kageyama grabbed some vegetables from the garden.   
   
 Kuroo was still impressed that there were vegetables that could grow despite the snow and frost. Some vegetables had been given protection, but others could grow despite it. There were leeks of a blueish colour, parsnips, a tough looking onion, and cauliflower.   
   
 Sugawara hummed playfully as he prepared the stew, removing the feet and head from the rabbit then working away the legs and loins. The vegetables were diced and it was all thrown into a pot. Some spices and dried herbs later, Sugawara informed them lunch would be ready in less than an hour.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 They were called Selturs, the formal wear of the Islanders.   
   
 Kuroo had first laughed when he had seen Kageyama at his door again at evening, but Sugawara ensured him that it was what everyone would be wearing at the party. Kuroo felt like a fool, but he watched Kageyama walk with what appeared to be some kind of skirt.   
   
 Okay, fine. Kuroo forced down a smile. It was not a skirt.   
   
 But.   
   
 “Wow.” Kuroo blinked as he looked ahead. “That is Saeko’s mansion? Your Sunfire lives here?”   
   
 “Yes.”   
   
 The Mansion was four floors and seemed golden by the number of braziers and hanging fires that lit up the outside. Distant music could be heard, as well as chattering. The path towards the house was paved in smooth stone and free of snow.   
   
 The two walked up the stairs, up the gold-lined red carpet.   
   
 “Donations?” asked one of the servants at the door. He blinked. “Oh! Ser Kageyama!”   
   
 Kageyama dipped his head in respect and stepped forward.   
   
 Kuroo followed closely behind.   
   
 There was a place to check in their coats and the two men were finally free of all those layers.   
   
 “Ser Kageyama,” came a dangerous voice.   
   
 Kageyama glanced sidelong. “Ser Suguru.”   
   
 “Who is your friend? Tell, he looks mighty fine…”   
   
 Kuroo wore an expensive black suit. His three-piece suit was of a fine cut, custom made for someone tall and slender, hugging his body. His light hazel eyes looked gold in these lights, and they matched the golden cufflinks and the dark yellow tie around his neck.   
   
 Kageyama, on the other hand wore the Selturs. A linen white shirt covered in a formal vest similar to what Kuroo wore, but not quite. The vest was more of a duster, covering his shoulders and extending downwards like a cape. It formed a half-skirt behind Kageyama. What caught Kuroo’s eyes, however, were the hoops of linen. They were like a dancer’s sash at his hips. One on each side, forming ovals at the hoops. Kageyama’s were a dark ocean blue, but Kuroo could see other people wore different colours.   
   
 Suguru wore sashes of a deep forest green, patterned to resemble scales.   
   
 But before he could speak, a woman whispered something in his ear and they walked off, smiles fading.   
   
 Kageyama’s eyes narrowed.   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow, but for another reason.   
   
 When he had seen Kageyama’s clothes, he had wondered naturally what the women wore. After all, everything on the Mainland was about matching and sets; but, here, it seemed men and women both wore the Selturs.   
   
 Kuroo felt not-so-oddly out of place.   
   
 “Come,” Kageyama said without glancing at him. He began walking, and Kuroo followed.   
   
 Up ahead, there was a blonde woman, with yellow sashes to match her hair, arguing in a hushed voice with someone. Upon seeing Kageyama, she gave a sigh and walked over with ferocious steps.   
   
 Kuroo noticed her shoes.   
   
 She wore black satin and leather shoes, with a thin sole. It reminded him of ballet slippers, but the wrong colour. He soon noticed Kageyama wore the same, as did everyone else. His own shoes—a pair of lace-up leathers with a slight heel—were the only pair out.   
   
 “Ser,” Kageyama said conversationally, “Can I introduce someone to you?”   
   
 The woman’s head snapped to Kuroo, his suit, and she made an appreciative noise before looking back at Kageyama. “I am ‘fraid now is not the time, Tobio. An accident in the kitchen or something—I am glad you are here, though. Get Shouyou on a leash. And make sure Oikawa causes no trouble, Love. I will be back shortly.”   
   
 “Yes Mother.”   
   
 She grinned wickedly and walked off with a wave.   
   
 Kuroo watched her go. “Mother?”   
   
 “Saeko Tanaka,” Kageyama explained. “The host.”   
   
 Kuroo raised his eyebrows. “Problems with the food? That cannot be good.”   
   
 Kageyama frowned. “No. And now is the time for toasts.” He scanned the crowd quickly. “After the toast comes the dancing, and—damnit—where is that  _brat?”_    
   
 Kuroo looked around. “Brat?” The room was a massive golden ballroom – though, from what he had heard they did not do ballroom dancing on the Island. He noticed, at the edges of the room, food and sweets were lined up, drinks as well, though the food seemed to be running low.   
   
 Kageyama made eye contact with someone across the room and glared.   
   
 Kuroo followed his gaze, and his eyes widened.   
   
 Wearing orange sashes, someone grinned wide and ran before jumping at Kageyama. “Tobio!”   
   
 “Ngh.” Kageyama caught him angrily. “What are you doing?”   
   
 “Wha—That is no way to talk to your fiancé.” The orange haired one grinned. “Come on. Why, let us have you say the toast today!” He shoved Kageyama affectionately (though to Kuroo, it looked like it hurt). “Everyone is talking about how you got the King’s Approval on your poem!”   
   
 “Ah, Kageyama,” Kuroo spoke up to get their attention. “Is this him?”   
   
 “Yes.” Kageyama shoved the other one off of him. “Tetsuro Kuroo this is Shouyou Hinata, my fiancé. Shouyou Hinata, Tetsuro Kuroo – the friend I made when I was overseas.”   
   
 “Hwa!” Hinata blinked twice and tilted his head. “Do you want to say the toast tonight?”   
   
 Kuroo blinked. “Eh?”   
   
 “No,” Kageyama  _hissed._    
   
 “Well it is either you or him,” Hinata said simply. “I mean Tooru and I were gonna make you do it, since Mom had to run off, and we thought throwing you on the hot seat would be fun, but—”   
   
 There was a sound of a fork lightly hitting the rim of a champagne glass.   
   
 Everyone in the room turned to someone standing on a stage. “Hello, hello!”   
   
 Kageyama growled at Hinata. “What is Oikawa doing?”   
   
 “Shh.” Hinata put a finger to his lips. “He is speaking.”   
   
 “Everyone!” Oikawa spoke in a sing-song voice. “It is time to make a toast, but ah – it seems Ser Saeko is busy preparing more fun for the night later on. Instead, the one I believe should make the toast tonight is—” He pointed straight at Kageyama. “The Islander’s winner of the King’s Approval!”   
   
 There was a cheer.   
   
 Hinata grinned.   
   
 Kageyama began sweating bullets.   
   
 “Um,” Kuroo whispered to Hinata, “You know he cannot do public speaking, yes?”   
   
 “Yep! That is why this is going to be so much fun.”   
   
 “Kuroo,” Kageyama said, eyes pleading. “Save me.”   
   
 Kuroo took a deep breath and raised his hand to get the crowd’s attention. “Thank you! Thank you!”   
   
 Oikawa’s face distorted into a sneer before he forced a smile and took a step back.   
   
 Kuroo walked towards the stage. A servant offered him a glass of champagne and he took it with a respectful dip of his head. The stage was only three or so steps up, so he made quick work of it and held his drink out.   
   
 Everyone looked at him expectantly.   
   
 “I am Tetsuro Kuroo, and I was born here on the Island,” he told them all. “I am a five time winner of the King’s Approval, holding the most of that award of any poet. Recently, my uncle has come to pass. He is dead. And I have inherited his fortune, his home, his land – Islander land. From what I understand, though… it is an Islander tradition to partake in festivals following death. To engage in dance, music, and fine drinks.”   
   
 The crowd listened intently, nodding along, curious smiles.   
   
 “I have never been to an Islander’s party,” Kuroo went on, “I have never seen such fine clothing, or fine wonders.” Bullshit, it was all bullshit. But—“But—I have yet to see the famed dances I have heard and read about. So, if the musicians are willing.” He glanced to them, dipping his head, giving them a little heads up, before he turned back to the crowd. “Let us start with the Islander’s Second Waltz!”   
   
 A couple people in the crowd whistled, a few claps, many bright smiles.   
   
 Kuroo knew next to nothing about the Island, but he knew that was a famed song – a popular one. He had once read in a book that it was the perfect melody to get one into the mood of a dance.   
   
 He had no idea what it sounded like.   
   
 “To the end of life, and to new beginnings.” He raised his glass. “To Ser Saeko Tanaka! And to her family!”   
   
 “Itov!” someone yelled from the crowd.   
   
 “Itov!” the rest yelled, taking a drink.   
   
 Kuroo did the same.   
   
 Oikawa did as well, smiling as he lowered his glass. “My, my.” The music began and the crowd turned away, leaving the two in private on the stage. “That was all impromptu?”   
   
 Kuroo smiled. “Most of my life is impromptu.”   
   
 Oikawa raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Well well.” He nudged his head to the side, to where servants were coming out with more food. “It seems the night will go well after all.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo spoke with Kageyama some, who was apparently childhood friends with the bartender—Yamaguchi—and Yamaguchi poured him a glass of their finest wines. The wines were sharper than Kuroo was used to, but had a touch of sweetness to them. The different tastes should have cancelled each other out, but instead they intertwined – hitting two notes. Multifaceted was the only way Kuroo could describe it.   
   
 The dancing was strange. It was graceful, with speed, rushes of movement. There were occasional stomps, though, in time with the strong parts of the music. It was lovely, but Kuroo had no idea why they were stomping.   
   
 “Ah, Tobio.” Yamaguchi nudged him slightly. “Ser Saeko is waving you over.”   
   
 “Oh.” Kageyama glanced at her, then to Kuroo. “I will be back soon.”   
   
 Kuroo nodded.   
   
 Kageyama wandered off.   
   
 “Quite a strange one that is,” came a teasing voice.   
   
 “Hm?” Kuroo raised an eyebrow, glancing over to the newcomer. “We haven’t properly been introduced, have we? You are Tooru Oikawa, yes?”   
   
 “Indeed.  _Ser_  Tooru Oikawa.” He grinned. There was someone behind him as well, but Oikawa seemed to lead the charge. “And you made quite the entrance, you did, with that lovely speech.”   
   
 Kuroo raised his glass. “It was unrehearsed, but fun.”   
   
 “Hajime, dear.” Oikawa glanced over his shoulder. “Join the damn conversation, would you?”   
   
 “Huh?” The other man seemed distracted. “Sorry, Tooru.” He glanced to Kuroo. “Ser Hajime Iwaizumi. This one’s mate.” Iwaizumi raised his chin and sneered down at Oikawa. “I am sorry I did not stop his… previous shenanigans.” He was not as tall as Oikawa, but he still managed to loom threateningly. He glanced to Kuroo, and his eyes seemed soft. “Thank you for taking the speech. Little Tobio would have died up there.”   
   
 “Oh do not be so dramatic.” Oikawa laughed. “Little Tobio’s been gone for over a year. He was the talk of the town… until you, Ser Kuroo.” He dipped his head politely. “I cannot help but want to rile him up… maybe I will go dance with his little Starfire.”   
   
 “Sunfire,” Kuroo corrected.   
   
 “Sunfire, yes.” Oikawa grinned. “Really, he just looks like a little tangerine. A mandarin. Do you not think so, Hajime?”   
   
 Iwaizumi scoffed. “Do not dance with Shouyou. You will just make Tobio jealous.”   
   
 “That is the exact point.”   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Kageyama gets jealous?”   
   
 “Yes and no,” Iwaizumi spoke before Oikawa could. “From what Shouyou has said, Tobio is the best dance partner he has ever had. However—”   
   
 “However—” Oikawa cut in, “Little Tobio does not dance in public. So much stage fright, that boy has. But Shouyou loves to dance. And so he dances with as many people that will dance with him. Tobio does not mind, usually.”   
   
 “Except my  _darling_  mate, Tooru,” Iwaizumi grumbled, “Likes to do everything in his power to make Tobio jealous.”   
   
 “A bit of eye contact with Tobio when my arms are around Shouyou, a couple movements that are too close, a few suggestive grips…” Oikawa grinned. “It is all in good fun.”   
   
 Iwaizumi growled. “Is it?”   
   
 Oikawa laughed. “Come, dancing with Shouyou is always fun. He is the house’s best dancer.” He glanced at Iwaizumi. “Is that not why you were so distracted? Watching him dance?”   
   
 Iwaizumi’s cheeks flushed, and he glanced away.   
   
 Kuroo glanced towards the crowd. “Where is he now?”   
   
 Oikawa simply murmured, “Incoming.”   
   
 Kuroo glanced over.   
   
 “Tooru!” Hinata bounced his way over, taking Oikawa’s hand. “Want to dance?”   
   
 “I would—” Oikawa stopped mid-sentence, feeling a sudden flare behind him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He cleared his throat. “I would love to see you dance with Hajime!”   
   
 Hinata instantly let go of Oikawa’s hands and took Iwaizumi’s. “Let us dance!”   
   
 “W-Wait!”   
   
 Kuroo watched them disappear into the crowd. It was only then he noticed Iwaizumi’s sashes were light blue, like Oikawa’s. Kuroo sipped his wine. He watched as Hinata pulled a rather helpless Iwaizumi into the crowd. Realistically, Iwaizumi could probably throw Hinata across the room, but it seemed Iwaizumi was just caught in Hinata’s direct sunlight.   
   
 They waited for the song to end—   
   
 Then they danced.   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow.   
   
 The music started fast and riveting, deep notes climbing like a rising tide. It was a kind of dance where they faced each other, moving their arms and feet, dancing around each other, only rarely touching – mostly to twirl – but there was deep focus, speed, and sharp precision in every movement.   
   
 Kuroo picked up on some notes, though.   
   
 After every fourth move, one or the other would raise their arms in curves. Their dominant hand would raise skyward, slightly bent, while their other arm would come in front of them at eye level. When the beat struck, they would twist their wrists – a flourish – it signalled the end of a set, or so Kuroo believed.   
   
 The arms came down, and the steps resumed.   
   
 Hinata’s sashes were orange, a shade redder than his hair. He moved with speed and strength; his focus scared Kuroo, and his flourishes were intimidating. But a challenge, as well. Kuroo smirked.   
   
 Mixed in were the stomps Kuroo had seen before.   
   
 On every sixth move, one or the other would grab their sashes and swing their arms back—before throwing their arms up, letting the coloured cloth rise, and stomping.   
   
 The first one was Iwaizumi’s and Kuroo noticed the strength he had put into the stomp, despite the grace of the movement.   
   
 On the twelfth move, where four and six intersected, the stomp preceded the flourish. They had stomped together, but…   
   
 When Hinata stomped—   
   
  _A thunderclap._    
   
 Kuroo’s eyes widened, as if he had been hit by a gust of wind.   
   
 How such a tiny frame held such force was impossible to tell, and he finished with a flourish.   
   
 At twenty-four, where four and six intersected at the peak of the song, the stomp had even greater force, and the flourishes happened twice, once in each direction.   
   
 When the song ended, Kuroo wished it still went on.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Hinata and Iwaizumi parted ways, and Oikawa reclaimed his mate and said something in his ear that made Iwaizumi’s breathing staccato. Kuroo assumed they were off for the rest of the night. He was more than comfortable at this bar, chatting with Yamaguchi, who told him what all the food was, and insisted he try everything. He also Kuroo who some of the lords and ladies were. Well, the sers. Yamaguchi referred to them all as Ser  _Him_  and Ser  _Her._    
   
 “Kuroo,” Kageyama’s voice cut in.   
   
 “Ser Kageyama,” Kuroo said in a slight tease.   
   
 Kageyama frowned.   
   
 Kuroo smiled. “Your Sunfire’s quite the dancer.”   
   
 “Yes. He was dancing with Ser Iwaizumi,” Kageyama muttered, his eyes drifting away before sharply returning to Kuroo’s. “Did Oikawa have anything to do with that?”   
   
 “I believe Iwaizumi danced with Hinata so that Oikawa would not.”   
   
 “I see.” Kageyama seemed to relax a little at that. “I can… get a bit jealous, when Oikawa gets hands-on with Shouyou. I know it is simply a game to rile me up, yet I cannot help but get riled up.”   
   
 Yamaguchi popped the cork of a bottle of red wine. “Maybe this will ease you, Tobio?”   
   
 “Mm.” Kageyama took the glass. “Thank you, Tadashi.”   
   
 Yamaguchi hummed. “Where did you go anyway?”   
   
 Kageyama sighed. “Something happened between Ser Suguru and Ser Terushima… a drunken dispute. Terushima was trying to call a duel.”   
   
 Yamaguchi stiffened. “A duel?”   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Duel? Are those common here?”   
   
 “Way too common!” came Hinata’s voice as he dragged someone with him. “Mom always tries to stop those damn duels. Damn Islanders, we have too much pride, you know? The moment dishonour is thrown around, we call for duels. As if a life is worth some petty argument!”   
   
 “Mm.” Kageyama glanced at Hinata, then to the one Hinata was dragging.   
   
 Yamaguchi perked up. “Want a drink, Kenma?”   
   
 “No.”   
   
 Hinata moved behind Kenma and shoved him forward. “Ser Kuroo!”   
   
 Kuroo blinked.   
   
 Kenma glared behind him, but it was obvious Hinata did not seem to care.   
   
 Kenma’s hair was dyed, but only partway. Kuroo wondered if that was on purpose, or if that was merely a lack of care to touch up his roots. He wore Selturs, like everyone else, but he wore two pairs of sashes. On each side, there was a yellow sash below a black one. It mirrored his hair, and he looked up.   
   
 Cat-like golden eyes stared at Kuroo.   
   
 Kuroo stiffened.   
   
 Kageyama glanced to Hinata. “Sunfire—”   
   
 “Hi!” Hinata yelled, and Kuroo mused he had interrupted Kageyama just for the sake of interrupting Kageyama.   
   
 “Hello,” Kuroo returned.   
   
 Hinata glanced at Kageyama. “Kenma wants you to introduce him to your friend.”   
   
 Kageyama frowned. “Hah?”   
   
 Kenma ignored them, stepping forward. “Kenma Kozume. Ser Kuro.”   
   
 Kuroo stiffened once more. “Ser Kozume.”   
   
 “Kenma is fine,” he murmured. “And I will call you Kuro. That is how you prefer it, is it not?”   
   
 Kuroo’s lips tugged into a smile. “And how do you know that, Kenma?”   
   
 “You wrote so.” Kenma’s eyes were haunting. “I have read each of your anthologies.”   
   
 “Every one?” Kuroo’s smile grew. “And you even bothered to read the ‘about the author’ page, if you know my preferences. Are you a fan of mine, Kenma?”   
   
 “I am.”   
   
 “And do you have a favourite of my poems?”   
   
 “Shallow Rocks.”   
   
 Kuroo’s jaw snapped shut.   
   
 Kenma gave a small but content smile. “I know you do not dance the Islander way, but I could request a standard waltz, by the Mainland standards.”   
   
 Yamaguchi looked quickly between Kuroo and Kenma.   
   
 Kageyama spun around. “Did Kenma just ask someone to dance?”   
   
 Hinata, mouth hanging open, did not respond.   
   
 Kuroo would have been amused by their reactions, but he was focused on those eyes. He offered his hand. “Shall we dance then, Kenma?”   
   
 Kenma took his hand. He glanced to the musicians; they nodded, as if there were pre-arrangements made. He turned to Kuroo. “Would you be more comfortable leading?”   
   
 “I would,” Kuroo admitted. “I can do a waltz in either way, but I have mostly done in the men’s way.” He began pulling Kenma to the dance floor and they found an empty spot. Most people had gone home already, so the dance floor was empty at this point.   
   
 Kenma placed his hand on Kuroo’s shoulder, and let his other hand weave with Kuroo’s to the side.   
   
 Kuroo placed his hand on Kenma’s waist, smiling. “I have wanted to dance all night, but I knew not any dances.”   
   
 Kenma did not reply.   
   
 The music began.   
   
 They moved in time.   
   
 Kuroo could quickly tell Kenma was experienced in the dance, but only this version of the dance. At one step per beat, it was a simple version of a slow waltz. But Kuroo did not mind. The party had been full of good food, good company, and many new names, new faces, new experiences. A slow waltz as a closing note seemed fitting.   
   
 They turned as they moved, and Kuroo pulled Kenma a little closer.   
   
 Kenma let his eyes half-lid and he hummed. “You did not like that I said Shallow Rocks.”   
   
 “No.” Kuroo felt his cheeks warm. “I, uh… Hah, I… wrote that in my youth. I thought it was brilliant, the most brilliant thing I had ever written… The others called it foolhardy, brash. An adolescent’s take on life.”   
   
 “It had energy,” Kenma murmured. “It was about hope, I think. About someone who had hope, in a world that tried to take it from him… but they found it again. That is how I saw it, anyway.”   
   
 Kuroo smiled a bit, looking away.   
   
 “Am I embarrassing you?”   
   
 “A little.” Kuroo glanced at him. They continued to dance, and again Kuroo pulled Kenma a little closer. “Would you believe me if I said I have met many fans, and have always wished one of them would say one of my favourite poems was their favourite as well? And it has never occurred, until you?”   
   
 “Lucky me,” Kenma said in a deadpan. “Was that a line expecting to make me swoon?”   
   
 “… Yes.”   
   
 “It did not work.”   
   
 “I see that.”   
   
 The very corners of Kenma’s lips tugged upwards, the world’s smallest smile.   
   
 And Kuroo could not help but smile as well.   
   
 When they turned in the dance, Kuroo put a bit more speed into it – and Kenma’s sashes blurred with the movements.   
   
 “Most of my fans fall at my feet, Kenma.” Kuroo tilted his head. “Though I suppose I can take our height difference as a victory.”   
   
 Kenma’s face distorted into an ugly frown.   
   
 Kuroo laughed.   
   
 Kenma scoffed. “I am twenty-seven, Kuro. I do not have time to swoon or to fall at your feet.”   
   
 “Twenty-seven,” Kuroo repeated, bewildered. “We are—”   
   
 “The same age, yes.” Kenma glanced away. “I have read your biographies, after all.”   
   
 “We are born the same year?”   
   
 “A month apart.”   
   
 The song began to fade, ending.   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “So, you do not swoon or fall at my feet – why, then, Kenma, did you so badly want to dance with me?”   
   
 “I wanted to see…” Kenma glanced up, meeting his eyes. “If you were what I imagined.”   
   
 “Am I?”   
   
 As the song ended, they stopped their movements. Kenma looked up. “I do not know yet.”   
   
 “Another dance then, Kenma?”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma nodded. “You are certainly as forward as I expected…”   
   
 Kuroo laughed. “Thank you.”   
   
 “It was not a compliment.”   
   
 “Though I doubt it was entirely an insult.”   
   
 “Not entirely.”   
   
 “See?”   
   
 “But an insult, yes.”   
   
 Kuroo snickered. Another song began, and they too began another dance. “You amuse me, Kenma.”   
   
 “What a gift,” Kenma deadpanned, “To be amusing to you, Kuro.”   
   
 “You make a devil out of me, Kenma—I am saying you make me laugh.”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma smiled. “Ask something of me.”   
   
 “Oh?” Kuroo thought it over. Their steps were in synchrony. “Have you ever written a poem?”   
   
 Kenma did not break eye contact. “I am not published, like yourself.”   
   
 “Ah, but… you did not answer my question.” Kuroo did not mind the eye contact with Kenma, if anything – he was sure it was special, to some degree. “I did not ask if you were published, I merely asked if you have written a poem. If you have read every single one of my poems, as you say you have, then surely you must have tried it yourself at some point.” They continued their waltz. “Even if it was just scribbles on the side of a page, no?”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma looked away, cheeks tinting pink slightly. “It is as you say, I suppose… If I have read that much, surely I have tried it myself. Even if they were just scribbles.”   
   
 “So you have?”   
   
 “So I have,” Kenma admitted. His eyes flicked up again. “Though I refuse to acknowledge it.”   
   
 “Very well.” Kuroo did not push.   
   
 They danced in silence for a little longer, until the song ended.   
   
 Kenma pulled away and lowered his head respectfully.   
   
 Kuroo gave an equal bow.   
   
 “Thank you for the dance, Ser Kuro.”   
   
 “Thank you for the dance, Ser Kenma.”   
   
 “Kenma,” he corrected. “Just Kenma.”   
   
 “Then Kuro,” he countered. “Just Kuro.”   
   
 Kenma stared at him, and another one of those small smiles formed on his lips. “Have a good night. I hope you enjoyed our party.”   
   
 Kuroo blinked. “Our?”   
   
 “Yes.” Kenma glanced at Kuroo, smile becoming a little sharper. “This is my home. Saeko is my mother, and Shouyou is my brother.” He was about to turn away, but paused. “Perhaps that can be your next poem—thinking you are dancing with a stranger, when in truth they are the master of the house. Or is that too cliché?” Kenma turned away. “Goodnight, Kuro.”   
   
 “Ah, um.” Kuroo blinked. “Goodnight.”   
   
 Kenma’s shoulders shook slightly, as if he was suppressing a laugh.   
   
 Kuroo was sure the look on his face must have been amusing, then, but he could not see it. He hummed, though, walking off to the side as he went to get his coat. Saeko Tanaka, Shouyou Hinata, and Kenma Kozume. They were family, but they all had different last names? Hm. Kuroo smiled as he wondered what that was about.   
   
 After all—as a poet—he had to wonder if it was a story worth telling. 


	2. Stale Cold Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Snow (Sondeneige) who gave me the confidence to keep this going back when it was in the early stages. They're incredible and I love them. But you're also incredible--for reading this. Thank you. Hope you enjoy Chapter 2!
> 
> * * *

_Yes, there are strength in demons,  
That on the mind they haunt,   
Anger brought out like beacons,   
And each other we taunt.   
   
But when anger is crumbled,   
And we must be humbled,   
We stand side by side.   
Hate withered and dried.   
   
The dance of poets,   
To put away hauntings strife.   
A chance to rebuild again in life   
   
The dance of poets,   
Reconnection, heat, fire - More.   
This is what it was for._    
 

* * *

   
Rhythms & Rhymes   
Chapter 2: Stale Cold Morning   
 

* * *

  
   
 Kuroo was—by no definition—a morning person. He remembers, briefly, Sugawara teasing him that his hair acted that way because it did not want to be awake. Kuroo frowned as he sipped a cup of tea. He had no idea why the world was the flurry it was, but he was not stepping out into the frosty winter without drinking a cup of tea first.   
   
 He was not much of a tea person.   
   
 He preferred the coffee of the Mainland, freshly ground, served piping hot. Strong, but not bitter.   
   
 But the tea was good too.   
   
 Sugawara brewed the tea strong, to match Kuroo’s taste as soon as he learned of it. He also heated a small pitcher – so that he and Kageyama could add a bit of hot water to dilute their tea.   
   
 Kuroo quietly wondered if this would be a morning ritual. Well, he would not mind if—   
   
 “Will you hurry?” Kageyama snapped. “We must be about it. We do not want to be late.”   
   
 “Where are we going?” Kuroo huffed. He chugged the rest of his tea and put the cup down. “Why the rush?”   
   
 “Because you are taking too long.”   
   
 Sugawara laughed. “Your coat, Master?”   
   
 Kuroo glanced behind him and extended his arms for Sugawara to slip on his coat for him. It was his second layer, only. The sun was quite warm today. Apparently. Kuroo thought it was frigid all the same. “Then let us go.”   
   
 Kageyama nodded and led them out of the house.   
   
 Kuroo followed despite his obvious want to protest.   
   
 Kuroo was—by no definition—a morning person.   
   
 Kageyama exited the house and walked over to where two horses were waiting for them.   
   
 Kuroo squinted. “You just left the horses here? Did not bother tying them up? Will they not get cold?”   
   
 “The horses have very thick fur here.” Kageyama offered his hand to one of them. “Shinsuke is a good horse, he would not leave. Atsumu on the other hand—your horse—is a bit wild, but Shinsuke keeps him in check.”   
   
 Kuroo frowned and glanced at his horse.   
   
 It was bigger than the horses on the Mainland, with long hair whose mane draped low to halfway down their bodies. The horses looked quite comfortable, despite the cold, and each had a shiny black saddle .   
   
 Kageyama lifted himself onto his horse. “You can ride, yes?”   
   
 “Maybe.” Kuroo did the same. “I can ride, but I cannot ride fast on a horse I do not know.”   
   
 “We do not need to ride too fast.” Kageyama smiled. “Since you finally got out of the house.”   
   
 “Ah, do not do that.” Kuroo squinted. “Your happiness at this deathly hour seems like a bad omen.”   
   
 Kageyama’s smile dropped, replaced with a scowl.   
   
 “There we go! That is far more like yourself.”   
   
 Kageyama huffed and tugged on the reins, though a small smile remained.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo did not have to lead the horse much. Atsumu was a bigger horse than Shinsuke, but Atsumu was fine in following Shinsuke’s lead. Kageyama did not have to do much either, as it seemed Shinsuke understood Kageyama’s desires. Kuroo took the time to enjoy the landscape, hills of endless white, massive evergreens dusted with snow.   
   
 He saw little hares and horned owls. He wondered if he could shoot them on horseback if he had his rifle.   
   
 But they were not hunting, and they did not have their rifles.   
   
 Kuroo was not sure what the hell they  _were_  doing, though.   
   
 “Tobio!”   
   
 Kageyama and Kuroo both looked to the side.   
   
 Coming towards them at an impressive speed, Hinata rode a bigger horse than both of them. It came to a slow, and then a halt, just meters before them. Hinata grinned bright, his orange hair seeming like a torch on the white landscape. “Ah, good morning Ser Kuroo!”   
   
 Kuroo opened his mouth to reply, but—   
   
 A deep sigh came from behind Hinata.   
   
 Hinata did not look back as he snickered.   
   
 Riding another black stallion, was—   
   
 “Kenma,” Kuroo said quietly.   
   
 Kenma glanced at him, making eye contact, before he shot Hinata a glare. “You know, I was alerted that you were up to something when you actually woke up early, rather than sleep for all of the morning, Shouyou.”   
   
 “Hah?” Hinata blinked. “Really? I believed I was convincing!”   
   
 Kenma gave a silent scoff as he glanced away. His eyes flicked up to Kuroo. “Good morning.”   
   
 “Good morning,” Kuroo repeated. “Are you unhappy to see me?”   
   
 “Not unhappy,” Kenma clarified, “Just annoyed at my brother’s attempt at being sly.”   
   
 “Hey! It was a good attempt!”   
   
 Kenma gave another scoff.   
   
 Hinata grinned. “Anyway!” He patted his horse and played with its mane. “Aran’s in a feisty mood today. Maybe he needs to get some energy out.”   
   
 “Mm.” Kageyama smirked. “Shinsuke as well. A race, maybe?”   
   
 Kuroo’s horse lifted its head at the word ‘race’, but Kageyama’s horse made a noise that made it lower its head.   
   
 “Just go.” Kenma glared at them both. “I know you are just going to be enjoying each other in some cave somewhere.”   
   
 “Whelp. We got caught.” Hinata laughed. “Bye!” He pulled the reins and his horse charged forward.   
   
 Kageyama did not bother looking back as his horse followed.   
   
 The wind blew, sending snowflakes whirling around them.   
   
 Kuroo half expected his own horse to give chase, but it did not. He glanced to Kenma.   
   
 Kenma avoided eye contact. “The fact I asked you to dance last night was not lost on them, it seems.” He gently grabbed the horse’s reins. “Atsumu, your horse, and Osamu – mine – are very close. They usually stick together, despite getting into their play fights.” His horse began walking slowly in another direction.   
   
 Kuroo’s horse followed. “And where are we going?”   
   
 “Hm.” Kenma gave a small smile. “Telling you would spoil the fun, no?”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo watched on as Kenma led them to a small glade through the trees, a small clearing in the forest. It was almost as though the trees formed a perfect circle. There was a single overturned log, and Kuroo guessed it had been there for many, many years. Kuroo glanced over. “Is this a spot you frequent often?”   
   
 Kenma nodded.   
   
 The horses led themselves to a spot where Kenma got off.   
   
 Kuroo did the same. It was only then he noticed a sack of supplies was tied to Osamu’s saddle.   
   
 Kenma took the supplies off the horse and began walking towards the overturned log. He took a seat and untied the sack.   
   
 Kuroo curiously sat next to him – a fair distance away. He noticed several things wrapped in cloth, and what seemed to be metal cylinders. Thermoses. He blinked. “What is this? A picnic?”   
   
 Kenma glanced his way. “Have you eaten?”   
   
 “No, only a cup of tea this morning.”   
   
 “Mm. Good.” Kenma offered some kind of sandwich that was wrapped in cloth, still warm, to Kuroo. Then, he opened the metal cylinder and poured steaming tea into two small bowl-shaped cups. He offered one to Kuroo.   
   
 Kuroo took it with an appreciative nod.   
   
 Kenma grabbed a sandwich for himself and began unwrapping it.   
   
 Kuroo unwrapped his own and took a better look at it. It was not a sandwich, though the outside was breaded. It was a bread-pocket of sorts, and he took a careful bite to see what was inside. His mouth watered. He could smell spices, ginger, onions, roasted potatoes, and what he assumed to be beef. There was also some white, salted cheese. He took a heavier bite and made a little noise of appreciation.   
   
 Kenma quietly chuckled.   
   
 Kuroo glanced over, eyes wide.   
   
 “Do you like it?”   
   
 “Very much so.” Kuroo nodded. “Thank you for the meal.”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma looked at his food with an unknown expression. “That was the other thing that set me off to my brother’s ploy.” His cat-like yellow eyes drifted to Kuroo. “When we make these, my brother and I usually make them together, with mother – when she is not busy. But today, Shouyou had the servants make it for us before we left.”   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Do you often make your own meals?”   
   
 “Even though we have servants, you mean? Yes.” Kenma nodded. “I prefer to cook my own food. In fact, I tend to feed my servants if anything.”   
   
 Kuroo smiled softly.   
   
 “I…” Kenma’s eyes drifted downwards. “Shouyou and I… we grew up, as servants. We are not nobles by birth, like yourself or Tobio.”   
   
 Kuroo’s jaw tensed at that. He took another bite to mask it.   
   
 “Our families were servants to a noble… a wretch of a man, really.” Kenma’s grip on his food tightened. “A fire took most everyone in that house. Shouyou and I were playing outside, and that was the reason we were the only ones who survived.”   
   
 Kuroo stopped chewing.   
   
 “Ser Saeko took us in as her own, then. She was in the neighbouring mansion. She could not have kids of her own with her partner. Ser Akiteru was born of the other sex originally, and… Um. So.” Kenma glanced at Kuroo.   
   
 Kuroo swallowed. “I see. That must have been hard. Losing your family, I mean.”   
   
 “Not… really?” Kenma scrunched up his nose. “It was, a long time ago. Twenty years, now.” He took a small bite of his food, chewed for a moment, and swallowed. “But it reminds me what it was like to be lower class. It is easy to take servants for granted.”   
   
 Kuroo nodded. “I am not used to having Suga around. I had to take care of myself on the Mainland, so inheriting this fortune is… Odd.”   
   
 “Mm. Your uncle… he passed, yes?” Kenma’s eyes were soft as he looked at Kuroo one more time. “Were you and he, close?”   
   
 “Not particularly… Some memories, of my childhood, but I never truly knew him.”   
   
 “Your parents?”   
   
 “I buried them.”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma nodded. “So we are alike, on that.”   
   
 “I suppose, yes.”   
   
 “Your tea will get cold, Kuro.”   
   
 “Ah.” Kuroo blinked. “Right.” He used one hand to lift the cup and sipped.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo considered writing a poem—then and there—about their warm meals in a forest glade. But, for once, he does not feel the urge to pick up his pen. No. Rather. Rather, Kuroo feels a strange sensation, an urge to only exist in the present, with Kenma. His whirlwind mind seems still, seems pushed to the side, and his eyes are focused alone on the way Kenma ate, with soft, small bites. Like a small animal; except, rather, a small animal with quite the appetite.   
   
 Perhaps a chipmunk.   
   
 Kuroo laughed, suddenly, to himself, and Kenma raised an eyebrow.   
   
 But Kuroo liked the silence. He liked the lack of a need to talk, the gentleness of snow falling around them. Kuroo cannot remember, no matter how hard he tried to think back, a time where he felt comfortable with just… being. Being in his body, being right where he was. He thought of how many times he had been pushed on stages, had given speeches, spoke simply for the sake of talking – talked simply for the sake of filling the silence.   
   
 But.   
   
 Silence.   
   
 It was not such a bad thing, perhaps. He, of course, being the poet he was, wondered how he could incorporate silence in a poem. A poem about silence, read aloud, would thus destroy silence. A paradox, really… but paradoxes were easier to work with than most people thought. A simple poem about the paradox of silence would be paradoxical. He did, at that point, make a mental note to himself. He did not pull out a sheet of paper and write it down, as he often did. He had a quill in his pack, and a small vial of ink. He could easily do so; but, instead, Kuroo chose to remain in the silence.   
   
 He smiled, to himself, and he glanced to Kenma. Perhaps his smile was bigger than he thought, because Kenma raised an eyebrow again – but, this time – Kenma smiled as well. Ah. That smile. Kuroo could easily write a thousand poems on that smile.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Again on their horses, they rode side by side. Kuroo’s horse kept bumping into Kenma’s horse, and Kenma gave Kuroo an annoyed look. Kuroo swore it was not him—he barely knew how to ride—and Kenma just gave a tiny, amused smile as he glanced away.   
   
 “Kenma,” Kuroo spoke up, “A question.”   
   
 “Mm?”   
   
 “Why did you tell me all about your childhood, and your history?” Kuroo looked forward, only speaking loud enough to be heard and no more. “I do not know you well, but you do not strike me as the type to lay it all out for me, as you did, so clean and crisp.”   
   
 Kenma kept riding, tugging Osamu’s reins when he started to bump Atsumu back.   
   
 “Perhaps I should be counting my blessings,” Kuroo added. “After all, you opened up to me… but – I think – it was not out of trust.”   
   
 “No.” Kenma scanned the horizon. “It was not.”   
   
 Kuroo examined him.   
   
 “I told you because it matters to some, Kuro.” Kenma met his eyes. “There are many nobles who do not have interest in ‘new money’, like myself. The last noble I had any relations with told me I would shame his family, because of my lower class upbringing. So. If that matters to you, you can make whatever choice you want.”   
   
 “Wait.” Kuroo’s eyes widened. “You are considering having a relation with me?”   
   
 “Why is that the part you focus on…?” Kenma let out a quiet breath, though he did smile. “That is—Ah… Worst timing…”   
   
 Kuroo looked forward.   
   
 “Kenma!” Hinata yelled as he rode close to them, a satisfied, relaxed smile on his face. Kageyama quickly followed, looking rather subdued.   
   
 Kenma’s forehead surged with wrinkles as his lips pulled into a grimace.   
   
 “Was this not fun?” Hinata laughed to himself. “What a nice morning. What do you think, Tobio?”   
   
 “Mm.” Kageyama pulled up his horse next to Hinata’s so he could lean over and kiss Hinata on the cheek.   
   
 By the ugly face Kenma was making, Kuroo assumed they must have had a long lovemaking session in some cave.   
   
 Hinata beamed. “Let us head home!”   
   
 Kageyama nodded.   
   
 “Kuro,” Kenma said. “Will you join for us a while? I am sure you would like to warm by the fire, at least.”   
   
 “Whah!” Hinata’s jaw dropped. “Kageyama! Kageyama!” He shoved Kageyama twice. “Look! Kenma invited someone over!”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Who the  _fuck_  are you!” Saeko put her folded fan under Kuroo’s neck, like a knife. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. She was adorned in the richest furs, soft fluffy whites lining smooth red. Her stance was perfect, back straight, chin up, other arm resting on her hip.   
   
 Kuroo was sure the paper fan could not kill him, but he was also sure Saeko could still somehow kill him with a paper fan.   
   
 Saeko eyed him.   
   
 They stood in the foyer, and it was clear Kenma was not coming to his defense. He was too distracted helping Hinata take off his coats.   
   
 “I-I am—”   
   
 “Mother—” Kageyama gently cupped her elbow. “This is my friend. The one who was coming from the Mainland, Tetsurou Kuroo. I told you about him, yes?”   
   
 “Oh.” Saeko pulled her fan away and whipped her wrist to unfold it. She fanned herself twice. “The fancy little poet, five time winner of the King’s Approval.”   
   
 Kuroo plastered a smile on his face. “Yes Ma’am. Er. I mean, yes Ser.”   
   
 “Hm.” Saeko squinted. “Kageyama got one of those King’s Approvals. Oikawa was surprised by it. Those things, are they truly so hard to get?”   
   
 “Well…” Kuroo cleared his throat. “His Majesty only awards four every year, one each season. When you think about the hundreds of poems that are submitted—from all across the Island, the Mainland, and other territories—it is quite rare. The King reads them with names stripped, to avoid bias, but he has given five of my poems the award.”   
   
 “It is the highest record,” Kageyama explained. “He is probably the best poet in the kingdom.”   
   
 Saeko closed her fan and let out a sharp whistle. “Well, well. And how did you meet my beautiful little son-in-law?”   
   
 “Son-in-law to-be,” Kenma corrected. “They are not wed yet.”   
   
 “Specifics!” Hinata helped Kenma take off his coat.   
   
 Saeko’s eyes never left Kuroo.   
   
 Kuroo took a small breath. “Ah. Well. Kageyama was studying literature and, and poetry in the cafes I frequented. I was quite sad when he went back to the Island. When I inherited the fortune, I wrote to him, and found out my uncle lived nearby to here.”   
   
 “Hah.” Saeko rubbed her jaw. “Tobio.” She shot him an aggressive look. “Did you invite him over because you wanted him here or because you were too awkward to say no?”   
   
 “I want him here!” Kageyama grumbled, “And  _Kenma_  invited him over, now.”   
   
 “Ha!” Saeko snorted. “Like hell I would believe that!”   
   
 “And I do not invite people over out of awkwardness!”   
   
 Hinata chuckled and grabbed Kageyama’s arm. “Did you not invite Oikawa over because you did not want to say no?”   
   
 “I said no!” Kageyama scowled. “You invited him over anyway!”   
   
 “Ah! That is right! I did!” Hinata laughed. “I could not help it though… he is so fine to look at!”   
   
 Kageyama huffed.   
   
 “Well.” Saeko hid her smile. “I am off to meet with a business partner—you kids play nice.”   
   
 “Bye mother!” Hinata gave her a kiss on the cheek before pulling away.   
   
 Kenma gave her a small hug before she left, as did Kageyama.   
   
 Saeko gave Kuroo a nod, and Kuroo returned it.   
   
 Kuroo watched her go. He could hear Hinata and Kageyama shuffling away, and he mused, “What an interesting little family you have, Kenma.”   
   
 “This is only some of it.” Kenma tugged at Kuroo’s coat.   
   
 Kuroo, remembering he was still wearing it, allowed Kenma to pull it away. “Only some?”   
   
 “We consider our servants family.” Kenma paused, coat about halfway off Kuroo’s shoulders. “Would you rather take a walk in the gardens with me?”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kenma led Kuroo around to the gardens. He could tell Kuroo had not seen a winter garden before. It was the way Kuroo looked around, everywhere, that gave it away. Kenma smiled. The trees were all barren, but snow hung on each and every branch, giving them the likeness of white leaves. There were several stone structures, frozen ponds, and angel statues. What Kenma liked most, though—   
   
 “How?”   
   
 “We have to take care of them,” Kenma explained as he squatted down. “But…” He reached out to touch a flower with ice-blue petals. “Flowers can grow in the cold.”   
   
 Kuroo looked at all the flowers, fully bloomed, and sighed. “I could write a poem about this, and no one would believe me.”   
   
 Kenma stopped a laugh from leaving his throat as he stood up.   
   
 “May I ask something?”   
   
 Kenma turned, raising an eyebrow ever-so-slightly.   
   
 “Your mother’s… fortunes.” Kuroo looked around. “She hosts parties, has an expansive garden, can take in two kids… Is her fortune inherited, or built herself?”   
   
 “She did inherit money,” Kenma murmured, “But not enough to buy all this. Her parents owned mines, for ores and minerals, but she was not satisfied with them. That was when she met her husband. Father works in metal crafting, smelting, and their businesses worked side by side.”   
   
 “Father?” Kuroo stepped closer. “First I have heard of him, for how much everyone talks of Ser Saeko.”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma winced. “Mother is… having an argument with Father, at this time. He is living apart from us…”   
   
 “… I see.”   
   
 “Children,” Kenma scoffed.   
   
 Kuroo blinked. “Children?”   
   
 “They…” Kenma clenched his teeth. “Ser Saeko and Ser Akiteru—they have squabbled over nothing. Children. Fighting when there is no need for it all…” He gave a deep sigh and a shrug, rolling his shoulders. “That is how some people are, though. Let us not talk of them.”   
   
 “Very well.” Kuroo’s lips tugged into a smile. “Perhaps we can talk of you?”   
   
 Kenma’s eyebrows pulled together and he squinted.   
   
 “Well. Apparently you know everything of me, as you have read my biographies.”   
   
 Kenma wrinkled his nose, but his face eased. “What do you wish to ask?”   
   
 “I asked you, yesterday, if you had ever written poems—”   
   
 “And,” Kenma cut in—quietly, but sharply, “I told you I never completed one… Yes, scribbles on the side of a page… rhymes, here there…”   
   
 “Would you?”   
   
 Kenma rubbed his jaw.   
   
 Kuroo’s lips tugged into a soft smile.   
   
 Kenma traced the line of that smile with his eyes, and he glanced away. His cheeks grew hot.   
   
 “Would you write a poem?”   
   
 “Kuro—”   
   
 “—for me?”   
   
 “Ah—” Kenma’s mouth hung ajar, and he failed to form syllables twice before he shut his mouth.   
   
 “Ah, Kitten’s at a loss for words?” Kuroo chuckled. “Cat got your tongue, Kenma?”   
   
 Kenma’s cheeks burned as he shot a glare.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Ah!” Hinata popped his head into Kenma’s bedroom. “There you are! Where is Kuroo?”   
   
 Kenma, curled up at his desk, glanced up from his book and hummed. “He went home.”   
   
 “He did!?”   
   
 “We spent two hours in the gardens,” Kenma murmured, “And then I invited him over for lunch and tea.”   
   
 “What!?” Hinata crossed the distance and put his hands on Kenma’s shoulders. “Why did you not invite me for lunch and tea?”   
   
 “You were busy having sex with Kageyama.”   
   
 “Ah.” Hinata let go. “That makes sense. Thanks for not interrupting, Kenma.” He leaned in to smooch Kenma’s forehead. “You are the best!”   
   
 “Thanks Shouyou.”   
   
 “So! Ser Kuroo!”   
   
 Kenma squinted.   
   
 “Tell me what is happening between you two.” Hinata pulled up a second chair and sat on it, cross-legged. “Does he make your heart sing?”   
   
 “No.” Kenma slipped his bookmark into the novel and closed it. “I have only known him for two days.”   
   
 “So?”   
   
 “I…” Kenma hummed curiously. “I am… drawn to him, though.”   
   
 Hinata leaned in. “Yeah?”   
   
 “Am I being… callous, or shallow? To say this is a headache, Shouyou?” His eyes narrowed and he looked down at the back cover of his book. “I am twenty-seven. I am past the age where I can dive into romances with foreigners… The town will talk, they will gossip, and I want none of that.”   
   
 “But.” Hinata frowned. “Who cares what the town says. Do you like him, Kenma?”   
   
 “You cannot like someone in two days, Shouyou.”   
   
 “But you can be drawn to him! And,” Hinata huffed, “You have known him for longer than two days. Kageyama raided your library when you were in the gardens, he says not only do you have each of his published books – but the pages are so worn from reading and rereading!”   
   
 Kenma’s eyes went dead as he quietly muttered a threat with a single word, “Kageyama…”   
   
 “Oh come off it, Kenma! You are acting so different, so odd, we cannot help but be a bit thrown off and curious!” Hinata took the book out of Kenma’s hands and put it on the desk. “Who cares about your age or his age or what the town will say. Do you like him…?”   
   
 Kenma looked down.   
   
 Hinata clasped Kenma’s hands.   
   
 Kenma’s eyes drifted to where their hands met and he breathed through his nose.   
   
 Hinata’s eyes, soft, looked into Kenma’s.   
   
 Kenma glanced up. “Yes.” He frowned. “Well. No. It is just… I could.” He tilted his head. “I could see myself liking him… but I would have to get to know him.”   
   
 “Then, get to know him, Kenma.”   
   
 “Mm. I think I will.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
  _“Would you write a poem?”  
   
 “Kuro—”   
   
 “—for me?”_    
   
 Kenma opened his eyes.   
   
 It was perhaps two, or three, past midnight. Kenma sat up in his bed, pulling the sheets from him slightly. His rubbed his tired eyes.   
   
  _“Would you write a poem for me?”_    
   
 Kenma groaned.   
   
 Why, oh why, could he not sleep?   
   
 Oh, he knew exactly why.   
   
 Every time he closed his eyes, he could again smell the woodsy cologne Kuroo wore. Again, he could see that mop of hair, that lazy smile, those curious eyes. Again, he would hear that voice, slow and sultry—and that bark-like laugh that broke the façade.   
   
 His mind would take him.   
   
 Kenma would imagine carding his fingers through that hair, wanting to know if it was coarse or soft.   
   
 Kenma imagined other things—Kenma’s hands roaming other places. Sometimes innocent thoughts, like what it would be like to kiss Kuroo.   
   
 “Madness.” Kenma kicked off the sheets and got out of bed. He wore a sleeping robe to bed, due to the cold, but he left it untied when he slept. He tied it this time, just in case anyone were to walk in. He struck a match and lit a fire. He illuminated a few candles to give his room light, and his eyes adjusted to the brightness.   
   
  _“Would you write a poem for me?”_    
   
 “Moron,” Kenma cursed as he pulled out a notebook, though he was not sure if he was insulting Kuroo or himself. He grabbed a quill and carefully opened the lid of his glass inkwell. Before he sat down, Kenma gave a deep sigh. “What am I? A child? A youth? To be taken with someone I have just met? What madness is this…?”   
   
 He could almost see it now, Kuroo in his room, illuminated by candlelight. Kenma would lead him to the bed, whispering,  _“Take everything of me, take everything of me.”_    
   
 He remembered Kuroo’s grip on his side when they danced – gentle, but firm, becoming increasingly firmer and more daring as they danced on.   
   
 He wanted that grip.   
   
 Kenma was no fool… he knew Kuroo could be using him, a quick affair, a kept lover on the Island while he went back to the Mainland.   
   
 But Kenma did not care.   
   
 Kenma had never let himself give into his needing, had never fed the urge growing. He would be acting like a young lad, free of consequence. He would be acting like a whore.   
   
  _“Take everything of me.”_    
   
 He would be throwing away all his sanity, giving into his humanity, but—   
   
 Kenma tried to distract his mind, so he thought of other things: a squeak of a wheelbarrow, bed sheets being ripped away, a glass shattering—a vulture swooping in for a kill.   
   
  _“Would you write a poem for me?”_    
   
 Kenma clasped his wrist. He shook his head. Squeak of a wheelbarrow. Sheets being ripped away. Glass shattering. Vulture swooping in for a kill. “No,” he whispered. “Have some control, Kenma.” He lowered his head. “Do not lose yourself to some fantasy…”   
   
 The notebook lay on his desk, an inkwell, and a quill ready but undipped.   
   
 Kenma stared. “What would I even write about?”   
   
  _“Take everything of me.”_    
   
 Kenma closed his eyes. He could hear it, a single line, being repeated once, twice – maybe four times in all?   
   
 The floorboards moved beneath his feet, the room expanded.   
   
 Kenma opened his eyes, watching the ceiling extend skywards. “To throw away all sanity, take everything of me, take everything of me.” Madness, it was—“To give into humanity, take everything of me, take everything of me.”   
   
 The walls circled and the windows blurred into thin strips.   
   
 “To give into being mad,” Kenma recited, spinning in a circle, finding words. Glad? Bad? Tad? “Lad,” he said. “I will rhyme it with lad, but then—”   
   
 The curtains ripped off the walls and moved in the storm with him. The room was a whirlwind, and Kenma was the centre. “Realisation slowly dawning, to be filled with—No. The other way. To be filled with endless wanting… realisation slowly…?”   
   
 The storm continued, the floorboards morphed.   
   
 “Yes,” he said to himself, running to the notebook, scribbling practice verses.   
   
 His own words, in raw black ink.   
   
 “To throw away all sanity,” Kenma repeated, “Take everything of me, Kuro. Take everything of me.” He breathed life into it. “To give into my stupid… little, weak humanity… take everything of me. Take everything of me, Kuro, take everything—everything—”   
   
 A knock at the door.   
   
 The room stilled.   
   
 Kenma glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”   
   
 “It is me,” came a quiet voice.   
   
 “You can come in.”   
   
 The door opened, and Kageyama peeked in. “I saw a light in your room, wondered why you were awake.”   
   
 Kenma glanced away, sharply.   
   
 Kageyama tilted his head. “Well… Goodnight then.”   
   
 Kenma cleared his throat. He nodded.   
   
 Kageyama left, closing the door.   
   
 Kenma looked back to his poem. He frowned. It had seemed so… ordered, in his mind. But now verses were scribbled left and right, disconnected, disjointed. But.  _But,_  Kenma mused, “At least there is something on the page…” He read each line and a smile formed on his lips. “I think… I can… work with this.” 


	3. Riveting Lights

_This hearts beats for old times.  
Those days are gone.    
Forgive those olden crimes?    
No one is romance’s pawn.    
    
Was it not to be everlasting?    
These two lives are contrasting.    
Must it be a clash between foe?    
It is as if this is death’s row.    
    
The land is rubble and breaking.    
The lowest of every low…    
A waste… a theatrical show.    
    
The softest mornings now aching,    
Humiliated to the core.    
What was it all for?_    
  

* * *

  
Rhythms & Rhyme    
Chapter 3: Riveting Lights    
  

* * *

  
    
 The music started fast and riveting, deep notes climbing like a rising tide. The crowd watched with interest, like watching a balancing act. On one hand, they wanted to see wonder; but, on the other hand, a part of them wanted to see failure, to see it all unravel, fall apart. They wanted a crash. They wanted an injury, a break. But Kuroo was determined that would not happen today. For his own honour, and Kenma’s.    
    
 Kuroo and Kenma moved their arms and feet, dancing around each other, brushes of skin on skin, the occasional twirl. Speed, focus, sharp precision.    
    
 On the first set of four, Kenma raised his arms in curves. Kenma’s left hand was skyward, slightly bent, while the other came around in front of his eyes. When the beat struck—Kenma flourished, twisting his wrist in time.    
    
 Kuroo was a lucky man, he told himself, for seeing it up close.    
    
 Kenma wore only one pair of sashes—black—unlike last time, when he wore two.    
    
 On the sixth move, Kuroo grabbed his yellow sashes—gifts from Kenma—and threw them upwards. He stomped with force.    
    
 Not as much as Hinata had, not the thunderclap, but with force that made all eyes turn to him.    
    
 The crowd wanted to see it.    
    
 The crowd wanted to see the new noble fail.    
    
 If he danced successfully, Kuroo had no doubt they would honour him as a true Islander. If he failed, they would laugh at him for being from the Mainland. A part of him cared, a part of him did not, but he knew failure would shame Kenma. It would shame Kenma, in his own home.    
    
 Kuroo would not have it.    
    
 At twenty-four—together—the two of them stomped and flourished twice each, once in each direction.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 A week earlier, Kuroo and Kenma had stepped into a store that sold the sashes. Kuroo at first was not sure why Kenma seemed so amused, but the curtain soon fell. Kuroo’s eyes widened at the prices of the sashes, and he bit his lips. He wanted the highest quality, of course, but that was a far off dream. Even the ones of medium quality were too expensive for his budget.    
    
 Kuroo suddenly understood why so many nobles had opted for uglier sashes.    
    
 Kenma hid a little laugh to himself.    
    
 Kuroo, though not looking at him, sighed. “You knew this would happen…”    
    
 Kenma just smiled his little smile.    
    
 “Kitten,” Kuroo warned, “I hate that look on your face right now.”    
    
 “You cannot see it.”    
    
 “I do not need to.”    
    
 Kenma stepped forward, cupping Kuroo’s elbow. “The sashes are the pride and joy of families, here. They are usually inherited, not bought.”    
    
 “If I sell my mansion I might be able to buy a pair.”    
    
 “Or I could give you mine.”    
    
 Kuroo blinked, glancing at him with wide eyes. “Kenma…”    
    
 “I have two.” Kenma shrugged. “You already bought the highest quality Selturs… would be a shame if you wore an ugly sash.”    
    
 “You.” Kuroo’s grin quipped at his lips. “You planned this from the start, did you not?”    
    
 “No.”    
    
 “You did.”    
    
 Kenma shook his head.    
    
 “Kenma, please, admit it.”    
    
 Kenma glanced away, beginning to walk to the exit of the store.    
    
 Kuroo laughed, loud, and followed.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Hinata watched from the sidelines.    
    
 Kuroo’s right hand was skyward, slightly bent, while the other came around in front of his eyes. At the beat, Kuroo flourished.    
    
 Kenma grabbed his black sashes and threw them upwards. He stomped.    
    
 “Ah, Tobio.”    
    
 Kageyama turned to Hinata. “What?”    
    
 Hinata’s lips tugged into a smile. “I have not seen Kenma this happy in a long time.”    
    
 “Hm?” Oikawa’s voice came from the side, “This is what Kenma looks like when he is happy?—I cannot say I see much of a difference.”    
    
 Hinata did not even glance at Oikawa as he replied, “Yeah. He is happy… I can tell.”    
    
 “Perhaps, then…” Oikawa let his fingers dance from one of Hinata’s shoulders to the other (much to Kageyama’s irritation). “You and I could join them on the dance floor?”    
    
 Kageyama glanced at Hinata.    
    
 Oikawa did the same. “Shouyou?”    
    
 “Huh?” Hinata turned to Oikawa. “My apologies, did. Did you say something?”    
    
 “Ah, yes. Do you want to dance, Shouyou?”    
    
 “Oh. No thank you, Ser Tooru.” Hinata’s eyes drifted back to Kuroo and Kenma. “I just… want to watch.” His chest swelled with butterflies and he clasped his hands together. “I just want to watch Kenma right now…”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 “I am impressed,” Kenma spoke at last, on the fifth song. “You mastered the dance in two weeks.”    
    
 “Be still my bursting heart,” Kuroo whispered as dramatically as he could, “My first compliment from you.”    
    
 Kenma scoffed and—on his twirl—kicked at Kuroo’s shin.    
    
 Kuroo sidestepped. “Your tactics are predictable, Kitten.”    
    
 Kenma simply murmured, “I will use new ones, then.”    
    
 “Please do.”    
    
 And they continued their dance, moving in time. Kenma noted that Kuroo had not mastered just the dance, but the music as well. He wondered, curiously, how Kuroo had heard all of these songs so often that he knew them by heart in only two weeks, especially since they had spent many days together… but he supposed he would let the poet hold some of his mysteries.    
    
 For now, anyway.    
    
 Kenma was a curious cat, after all.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 “Keeeeeeeenmaaaaaaa!”    
    
 “Shouyou, some of the servants are sleepi—Oof!”    
    
 Hinata giggled as he tackled Kenma from behind, shoving him into the mattress. “Today’s party was so much fun!”    
    
 Kenma, face shoved in a pillow, sighed into it.    
    
 Hinata got off Kenma and rolled over, onto his brother’s mattress. “Mom was saying she has not seen you dance like that since you were seventeen! Ten years!”    
    
 “Mm.” Kenma shrugged. “Kuro is a good dance partner.”    
    
 “Kenma!” Hinata got up only to jump on him again, ignoring the protests. He nipped Kenma’s ear with his lips.    
    
 “… Shouyou.”    
    
 “I told them, you know! They all said I was the best dancer in the house—but I said wait until you watch my brother dance, but nobody has seen you dance… because you never had anyone to dance with, like this. I was happy, Kenma. I was happy watching you dance.”    
    
 Kenma looked away.    
    
 “So, when are you and him gonna start smooching?”    
    
 “Use another verb.”    
    
 “Kissing?”    
    
 “… Better.”    
    
 Hinata threw his head back in a laugh. “Kenma! Tell me!”    
    
 “Shh.” Kenma rolled back to face him. “Some of the servants are sleeping… They got up early to set up the party. We should let them rest in peace.”    
    
 “Fine, fine, fine.” Hinata deflated onto Kenma’s bed. “But when are you and him gonna do the smoochies?”    
    
 “… Is that all this is to you?”    
    
 “Huh? What else could it be?”    
    
 Kenma frowned, unsure how to answer that.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 That night, Kenma found himself unable to sleep once again. He lit a single candle by his desk and opened his notebook. He took a cautious breath as he opened the pages. It was two weeks ago that he had written his first scribbles of a poem… Only days ago, he’d perfected it. Finished it. He tensed his jaw. No, it was not perfect.    
    
 It could be improved, but…    
    
 But everything could be improved.    
    
 Kenma did not necessarily know how he felt about it. The words were raw, probably juvenile. It reminded him of all the times he had read up on the first few works of famous poets. How it had always felt so… wild, young. Young—youth. Kenma took a deep breath. Kuroo made him feel like that, feel young. Feel like a youth. A part of him hated it, but…    
    
  _To be filled with endless wanting  
 A shock to the very core.    
 Realisation slowly dawning,    
 Acting like a whore._    
    
 Kenma read the first verse, both horrified and impressed that he’d said it as it was. It was not a poem he could recite in public, but… No, no one would read it. Only Kuroo. Hopefully. He prepared an envelope carefully. He tore the page with the utmost care, reading the next verse.    
    
  _To have never given into needing,  
 An urge that needs to be feeding.    
 To give into being mad,    
 Acting like a young lad._    
    
 Before he read the rest, he slipped it in the envelope.    
    
 Tomorrow morning, he would send the letter. It would be gone. Kuroo would know… Kuroo would know how he felt.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Sugawara hummed. He had already taken care of the vegetables in the back, now he took care of the plants outside, winter roses and snowlillies. He hummed as he took care of each plant with slow, careful, movements. He had named each of these flowers himself, and they often kept him company in his every day. His old master was a quiet man, the kind who never really stepped out of his study. Sugawara never minded; if anything, he figured it was easier than being a servant of the Tanakas.    
    
 After all, hosting those parties must be exhausting.    
    
 Probably fun the first few times, Suga pondered, but after a while it would just be rush after rush.    
    
 It did get lonely though, and so Suga hummed. He hummed to his flowers, to himself, to the silence, to the cold—to all of it. It was a little hum his mother taught him when she was young, and he never forgot it.    
    
 But.    
    
 Suga stopped his song, shifting his head only slightly to the side, turning to glance over the shoulder.    
    
 A man stood a few paces away, holding a letter in his hand.    
    
 “Ah.” Sugawara let his eyes grace over the other person for a short while before he returned to the flowers. “I am sure you know where the master’s mailbox is.”    
    
 “Please,” the man murmured, “Can I not deliver it to you personally?”    
    
 “It is not for me, though, is it?”    
    
  _“Suga…”_     
    
 “Hmm.” Suga turned around, unable to hide the teasing tone in his voice as he mimicked,  _“Daichi…”_     
    
 Sugawara took off his gardening gloves and let them rest on the stones that surrounded the flowerbed. He walked over to Daichi, smile growing with each step.    
    
 Daichi wrapped his arms around him, moving to kiss the corner of his mouth.    
    
 “Indecent,” Suga said in a chuckle. “Are you not here on your master’s business?”    
    
 “And why should I not take the side route?” Daichi purred, “And enjoy you a little more?”    
    
 “Hush, you. Why is the chef playing delivery boy anyway?” Suga nuzzled Daichi’s cheek. “Do you always serve your own self-interests?”    
    
 “Ha.” Daichi nipped Suga’s jaw. “No, love.” He pulled back and showed the letter. “I was asked to deliver this personally, though I cannot say who it is from.”    
    
 “That is Ser Kenma’s handwriting.”    
    
 “Well.” Daichi offered the letter. “I can neither confirm nor deny…”    
    
 Sugawara, delicately, took the letter. “Will you come inside?”    
    
 “I should not.” Daichi sighed. “Would your new master not mind if you invited me in?”    
    
 “I hardly think so.” Suga shrugged. “He hardly has any of that nobility air around him. You sure you do not want to come in, love? A single cup of tea?”    
    
 “I must return.” Daichi sighed again. “I know not what little Shouyou will do in the kitchen while I am not there to kick him out…”    
    
 Suga’s lips fell to a small pout, but he smiled. “Okay.” He leaned over, kissing Daichi softly. “I should not hold you back, though it is always good to see you. A little surprise.”    
    
 “Perhaps I will give you more surprises,” Daichi mused.    
    
 “Oh? Why so?”    
    
 “It seems our masters…” Daichi motioned to the letter in Suga’s hand. “Seem to be, getting along.”    
    
 “Really?” Suga raised an eyebrow. “He is trying to court Ser Kenma?”    
    
 “I can neither confirm nor deny—”    
    
  _“Daichi.”_     
    
 Daichi snickered. “But, no. He is not courting Ser Kenma.”    
    
 “No?”    
    
 “I think Ser Kenma is courting him.”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kuroo sat at the small table in the kitchen. His plate of thin and flat pancakes was half-eaten. It was topped with nuts this time, as the bowl of yogurt was topped with fruits. There were also a few strips of duck. He and Kageyama had hunted it a day earlier—Kageyama, the poor shot, was essentially useless as always. Sugawara had slow cooked the duck, explaining he had a way of preserving it for a long while, as the fatty meat was too much for dinner alone last night.    
    
 In Kuroo’s hand, however, was a single letter signed with Saeko’s family crest. He opened it cautiously and glanced it over before reading it.    
    
 “Ah,” came Sugawara’s voice from behind him.    
    
 Kuroo glanced over his shoulder.    
    
 Sugawara refilled his teacup. “I thought I would let you know, that is Ser Kozume’s handwriting.”    
    
 Kuroo blinked.    
    
 Sugawara filled the cup to the top and walked away.    
    
 Kuroo returned to the piece of paper.    
    
 His eyes widened.    
    
  _To throw away all sanity,  
 Take everything of me    
 Take everything of me_    
    
 Kuroo took in a cautious breath.    
    
  _To give into humanity  
 Take everything of me    
 Take everything of me._    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 When Kuroo arrived next at Saeko’s manor, Kenma asked him to come inside. Kuroo, instead, asked if they could take a walk in the gardens. And walk they did. They walked through the gardens, step by step, careful step by careful step. Kuroo said nothing for a long time, admiring the way blue and violet flowers bloomed despite the harsh winds and snow. He took a quiet breath as they came to a fork in the trail.    
    
 Kenma led him left.    
    
 Kuroo did not complain.    
    
 “You read my letter?”    
    
 “I have.”    
    
 Kenma continued to walk. The only sound was the crunch of their boots on fresh fallen snow. Kenma continued the trail, until he came to another fork. Instead of left or right, however, he brushed snow off one of the benches and took a seat, turning to face Kuroo.    
    
 Kuroo paused in front of him.    
    
 “And?”    
    
 Kuroo took a breath. “And…”    
    
 “You reply?”    
    
 “I…” Kuroo bit his lip. He avoided eye contact for a moment. “Kenma… What is it, exactly, that you see in me?” His eyes narrowed. “Why me, Kenma?”    
    
 Kenma’s eyes fell, slightly; his body sank into his seat.    
    
 Kuroo could see the disappointment—the crushing disappointment that this conversation would not go as Kenma had expected.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 A river of ice. Kuroo walked along it, alone. A part of him told him he could use this in a poem some day. A river of ice. Well, no… it was a frozen river, a river that had frozen and turned to ice. But a river of ice. It sounded… musical, in a way. He could make a sharp rhyme out of it. Perhaps… dice? A poem of a man who had gambled, and lost it all. Or maybe vice—Spice, maybe?    
    
 Kuroo shook those thoughts out of his head.    
    
  _“Kenma… What is it, exactly, that you see in me?”_     
    
 Kuroo took cautious steps over the frozen waters.    
    
  _“Why me, Kenma?”_     
    
 Kuroo stood alone on a river of ice.    
    
  _“Will you return my feelings?”_  Kenma had asked, a quiet voice, a shier voice than usual.    
    
 Kuroo had stood before him, eyes averted, as he had whispered, simply,  _“No.”_  


	4. Burning Lights

_But there are strength in demons,  
That on the mind they haunt.   
Anger brought out like beacons,   
And each other they taunt.   
   
What was built is now breaking,   
Gentle mornings now pain and aching.   
It is done. It is war.   
What was it all for?   
   
The battle of poets,   
Destroy, break, untie - more.   
What was it all for?   
   
The battle of poets,   
The man had too many flaws.   
The cat had too many claws._    
   
 

* * *

  
Rhythms & Rhymes   
Chapter 4: Burning Lights   
  

* * *

  
   
   
 A river of ice. Kuroo walked along it, alone. A part of him told him he could use this in a poem some day. A river of ice. Well, no… it was a frozen river, a river that had frozen and turned to ice. But a river of ice. It sounded… musical, in a way. He could make a sharp rhyme out of it. Perhaps… dice? A poem of a man who had gambled, and lost it all. Or maybe vice—Spice, maybe?   
   
 Kuroo shook those thoughts out of his head.   
   
  _“Kenma… What is it, exactly, that you see in me?”_    
   
 Kuroo took cautious steps over the frozen waters.   
   
  _“I see a lot of things, Kuro.”_    
   
 Kuroo stood alone on a river of ice.   
   
  _“Like what?”_    
   
  _“When I first read your poems, I saw someone who loved agony… who was mindless, trapped, but beautifully eloquent… Now, I see something else. I see madness, and loneliness. I see someone, like me, who has never truly opened his heart to someone else… What I see, is…”_    
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The gardens were frigid and cold, like the rest of this damn island. Kuroo was only glad that it was not currently snowing. The howling of the wind would have made this delicate conversation difficult, and the damn Ushankas—the funny hats that looked like bags—would cover their ears, making them yell if they wanted to be heard.   
   
 No, today was a beautiful day. The sun was divine and vibrant, blazing undefined in the sky.   
   
 It gave Kuroo solace from winter’s rage, slightly.   
   
 He dipped his head.   
   
 “Now, I see something else. I see madness, and loneliness. I see someone, like me, who has never truly opened his heart to someone else…” Kenma averted his gaze. “What I see, is someone I would like to know. We have been dancing around each other, Kuro… Let us be more direct with our feelings.”   
   
 “Kenma…” Kuroo reached into his coat, pulling a letter signed with House Tanaka’s seal. “I… cannot.” He offered the folded blue envelope. “Kenma…”   
   
 Kenma’s eyes widened and he leaned back.   
   
 “I cannot accept your letter… I am not, your feelings, we…”   
   
 “I will ask simply,” Kenma said in a quiet voice, a shier voice than usual. “Will you return my feelings, Kuro?”   
   
 Kuroo averted his eyes, whispering, “No.”   
   
 “You lie.” Kenma’s hands gripped the underside of the bench. “Your feelings… you bear them for me, I know.”   
   
 “Yes, you are correct.” Kuroo shifted his body, turning to the side. “I bear them, but I cannot return them… Marriage, life, romance… Kenma, you must understand.” He faced him. “There are reasons I have avoided these!”   
   
 “You write of them…” Kenma’s eyes shifted slightly. “You write of them, tell stories of them, poetry of them, and yet you would not have these things for yourself, is that it then?” His voice rose ever-so-slightly, but Kuroo heard it, and Kenma’s voice became red, “Am I nothing to you, then!?”   
   
 “You!” Kuroo took a breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are more than anyone else has been to me.”   
   
 Kenma’s expression softened.   
   
 “Kenma, you must see things from my point of view.” He lowered his hand and took a breath. “My uncle has passed… My life is completely in flux… Shall I stay on the Island? Should I return to the Mainland? Who am I? Who am I, now that I have inherited fortune incomprehensible? Who am I, Kenma?”   
   
 Kenma took in a sharp breath.   
   
 “Realistically, we have known each other a month. A month! And what a fantastic month this has been, Kenma… But these are things I must discover about myself, and I want to discover them by myself, not with someone at my side. I am sorry, Kenma…” He offered back the blue envelope. “I cannot accept your letter.”   
   
 “Keep it.” Kenma stood. “I have no need for it.”   
   
 “It’s your first poem… will you not want to keep it?”   
   
 “I will write others.” Kenma walked past him, tugging his coat. “I will write for those that actually need to be written.”   
   
 Kuroo turned. “Kenma!”   
   
 “You are a fake!” Kenma looked behind him. “You are a fake…” He shook his head. “You play and you smile, you pretend to be so much more, but in the end you are simply afraid. You tell people to expand themselves endlessly, to face their fears, you build others up – Kageyama, myself, more – and yet you will not even dare to try for yourself?”   
   
 Kuroo glanced away. “May I ask something, incredibly rude? And possibly foolish.”   
   
 “Ask.”   
   
 “Was I your first love, Kenma?”   
   
 “No.”   
   
 “Ah.” Kuroo bit his lip. “I am sorry, then, I merely thought—”   
   
 “But.” Kenma glared. “You were the first time I allowed myself to feel those feelings.” He scoffed, brushing his hair out of his face. “I feel childish admitting it. A month – you are correct, it has only been a month. I am far too old to fall in love in a single month. I will not bother you with it any longer, Ser Kuro.”   
   
 “Kenma—”   
   
 “Go!” Kenma swiped his arm to the side. “Go on your great journey! Go. Discover whatever you want to discover. You’re a great poet, apparently too high for my garbage of words!”   
   
 “Kenma—”   
   
 Kenma bristled and turned, walking away.   
   
 Kuroo was left in the garden, holding tightly onto Kenma’s letter. Alone in the garden, he took a cautious breath and bit his lip. He shook his head, and looked up. Ah. It had started to snow. Kuroo walked towards the exit, wondering if this was the last time he would ever be at Saeko’s Manor.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo walked through trudging snow to his own home. Sugawara greeted with him a smile, and Kuroo ignored it. He went up the stairs—and slammed the door behind him. He stayed in the solitude of what was once his uncle’s bedroom. His dead uncle’s bedroom. He looked around, at all his few possessions. Nothing save his suit and Selturs held any value, truly. He could pack up and leave, easy as ever.   
   
 “I should not have come here,” Kuroo whispered. “I should not have come to this wretched island.”   
   
 He went through his notebooks, his stories, his ideas, half-written poems, rhymes scribbled on the side of a page…   
   
 He felt nothing.   
   
 Nothing.   
   
 He eventually hungered and walked down the stairs towards the kitchen. He had not wanted to bother Sugawara, not now, for a meal. He did not want to bother anyone for a meal, but when he got there he sighed.   
   
 “Lunch?” Sugawara asked, finishing something up by the fire. “I figured you would be hungry at this time.”   
   
 “Sugawara.” Kuroo stepped closer. “Let us hypothesise this whole manor burned down – where would you go? Would you have a home?”   
   
 “Ah.” Sugawara blinked. “Yes, I have friends and family. I know I would get another job, though I certainly hope you do not burn this manor down.”   
   
 “I will not.” Kuroo scoffed. “I may sell it, though.”   
   
 Sugawara stirred what was in the pot and hummed. “Master?”   
   
 Kuroo glanced over. “Yes?”   
   
 “If I may…” Sugawara hummed. “Heritage homes are those that have been around for over a hundred years. They are considered elite status, and many wait until the hundredth year to sell. As this manor is ninety-two years old… if you hold off selling it for eight years, your fortunes will be more than ten times higher.”   
   
 Kuroo raised an eyebrow. A part of him could care less, he just wanted this damn thing gone, but he also knew he would be throwing away a large sum of money that he could use in his future. “What would be the cost to maintain it?”   
   
 “Minimal. We grow our own food, I weave my own clothes. The manor is in good condition, and hardly anything needs to be fixed. Not much.”   
   
 “No, not much.”   
   
 “Ten niros a month would get me through the year, covering my salary and the costs to maintain.”   
   
 “Ten?” Kuroo shook his head. “I will give fifty.”   
   
 “The house does not need that much, Ser.”   
   
 “Not the house,” Kuroo murmured. “You have served my family since you were young. You were by my dying uncle’s bedside when I was not. You will promise me you will not live in such barren conditions anymore.”   
   
 Sugawara laughed, turning to face him. “I have always enjoyed living a simple life, Ser Kuroo. If you give me any more than I need, or want, I shall just give it to donations.”   
   
 “Very well.” Kuroo offered a smile. “But you must promise me that you will enjoy your life while you are here, then, yes?”  
   
 “Yes.” Sugawara grinned. “I would not mind visiting cafes more often, or having more books. Your uncle – may he rest in peace – has a horrible library, if I am being honest. Mostly military books, no fantasy. Not my taste.”   
   
 Kuroo snorted. “Then build your own library.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The next couple of weeks were long and tiring. Kuroo was still mulling over whether he wanted to return to the Mainland or not. He wrote to many of his friends back home, and they all told him to return. They called the Island backwater, confused, and a silly frivolous place. It was not as proper or as righteous as the Mainland. Kuroo’s heart fell as he read their words.   
   
 Yes, if he went back he would have to say what a crazy place the Island was…   
   
 He would have to talk about their crazy parties and dances, how the men and women were not matching in pairs, but looked alike.   
   
 If anything, Kuroo knew he would miss the dances. He would miss the music, and the fine wine. He would miss the food, and the snow, and all the layers, and the horses. He would even miss going hunting with Kageyama, even if he was a hopelessly poor shot. It occurred to him, then, that he had never actually seen Hinata shoot. Apparently Hinata was better with a rifle than Kuroo was, and he had been begging Kageyama to bring him along.   
   
 Kageyama had been blunt, though: Hinata never woke up early enough to go on their hunts.   
   
 Apparently Hinata would say, every night, that he would come – but the following morning he would snooze away no matter what Kageyama did.   
   
 Kuroo read over the letters on his desk.   
   
 One of them was a letter, with the Tanaka Seal, inviting him to a party happening this very evening.   
   
 Kuroo had only opened it because he was in shock that he had actually gotten a letter from them. A part of him assumed, or maybe hoped, that Kenma had bad mouthed him to his whole family. Though, it seemed, that was not the case. He read the letter over. It was entirely identical to the previous letters inviting him to previous nights.   
   
 He would not be going.   
   
 Sugawara had tried to tempt him, saying it was a charity case, and going would be good for the community…   
   
 But, no.   
   
 No dancing, no Kenma.   
   
 Kuroo would never have it again, so what was the point.   
   
 There was a knock at his door.   
   
 Sugawara offered a smile. “You have a visitor, Ser. I know you would like me to send him away, but I do not think anyone can send Kageyama away when he gets his tunnel-vision going.”   
   
 Kuroo scoffed at that and tossed the letters aside. “Very well.” He stood up. “Tell him I will see him shortly.”   
   
 Kuroo made Kageyama wait a few minutes, for no real reason other than that he could.   
   
 Finally, Kuroo came down the stairs and towards the kitchen where Kageyama was waiting. He had expected his guest to wait in the front entrance, or perhaps the living room, but he was not entirely surprised that Kageyama did whatever Kageyama did, with nothing able to stop him.   
   
 Kageyama saw him enter and stood. “Kuroo.”   
   
 “Let us be frank,” Kuroo said sharply, “I know the event is tonight, and I know you have come to convince me to attend. I will not have it.”   
   
 Kageyama scowled. “What happened?”   
   
 Kuroo tilted his head. “Be specific, friend?”   
   
 “Kenma will not speak of anything that occurred between you two. Sunfire is worried…”   
   
 “Why do you not worry over your own issues, Kageyama?”   
   
 “Do not be hostile with me!” Kageyama snapped, “Kenma is a brother to me.”   
   
 “You are not even married to Hinata; so, no, Kenma is not your brother-in-law.”   
   
 “He will be soon. We are engaged.”   
   
 “Barely!” Kuroo laughed, louder than he needed to. “You have been engaged only a few months. You will not be wed until next year, no? You have no plans, no wedding arrangements—”   
   
 “That!” Kageyama spoke low and dangerous, “Is enough.”   
   
 Kuroo closed his mouth.   
   
 “Come, friend.” Kageyama offered a hand. “You will not do well to sit in this manor, alone, while you know everyone else is attending. Come…”   
   
 Kuroo glanced away, letting out a sigh. “Nothing good will come of me attending.”   
   
 “I was not aware clairvoyance was in your skillset, Ser Kuroo, now shut your mouth and wear your damn Selturs. You will not sit alone here in this manor, steeping in your regrets. Come… Please.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo knew he had lost the battle quickly. After all, he had seen Kageyama’s eyes dart to his chin, where Kuroo had freshly-shaved just in case he would attend a party. Kuroo wanted to go, and Kageyama knew it. Soon he found himself walking the familiar path, with a familiar company at his side.   
   
 At the party, the first thing Kuroo did was order a drink. Yamaguchi was more than happy to pour him one.   
   
 Kuroo felt odd, wearing Kenma’s yellow sashes when the two of them—   
   
 “You showed up.”   
   
 Kuroo tensed, knowing that voice. He closed his eyes. “Kenma.”   
   
 “Kuro.”   
   
 Kuroo turned slowly, to face him. “It is a charity event.”   
   
 Kenma gave a small nod.   
   
 Another Ser came and ordered two drinks, and Yamaguchi poured.   
   
 Kenma’s eyes drifted away. “I am… sorry, for what I said to you.”   
   
 “I deserved it.”   
   
 “You did,” Kenma agreed, eyes lighting up and meeting Kuroo’s. “But. Still. I am sorry. I should not have been so aggressive with you… Your… concerns, are valid. Your request for time for yourself was proper. I should not have taken it personally.” He turned to leave. He opened his mouth, as if there was more for him to say; but, in the end, Kenma shook his head and walked off.   
   
 Kuroo drank the rest of his wine, barely tasting it.   
   
 He could hear, though, a few paces away someone was whispering something about him.   
   
 Ah, the gossips… Kuroo glanced up to the high ceilings. How the gossips would begin again. Of course they would. They always did.   
   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
   
 “Did you hear about Saeko’s older son?”   
   
 “Hmm, the quiet little cat? Yes, I have heard he has the finest dance partner.”   
   
 “Not anymore… there he is, sitting at the bar. Alone.”   
   
   
   
 “You know what they say of that Mainlander, do you not?”   
   
 “Kuroo Tetsuroo? The man who delivered that speech a month ago?”   
   
 “Yes, they say Saeko’s son cut things off after finding out he had a wife back home.”   
   
 “Disgusting, haha. Well now, let us have another drink and discuss this more…”   
   
   
   
 “What a lovely Ser that one is. What is his name?”   
   
 “Kuroo. I told you about him, the one who inherited his uncle’s fortune.”   
   
 “Ah, a new noble… They say he killed his uncle himself.”   
   
 “Dreadful! Tell me more…”   
   
   
   
 “They say he can dance and he’s eloquent…? What a wreck, look at him.”   
   
 “I feel bad for the poor thing. I wonder why he is not dancing with little Kenma?”   
   
 “Ser Kozume probably left him after finding some dirt. You know how it goes.”   
   
 “Mainlanders… always keeping backup whores somewhere.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Ser Kuro,” Yamaguchi said firmly, “I think you should stop drinking.”   
   
 “I have only had two glasses of wine, friend. I am fine.”   
   
 “You drink them too quickly.” Yamaguchi held the bottle back. “These are far too fine of wines, and this is far too fine of a party to start on that path here and now.”   
   
 Kuroo looked at him, glaring, then sighed. “You are right, Tadashi… Thank you, friend.” He got off his seat and walked around. Still, the gossips seemed to float around.  _Well, well,_  Kuroo mused to himself,  _Looks like I am tonight’s entertainment then._  He continued to walk around, hating every damn step he took.   
   
 Why did he come?   
   
 Kageyama.   
   
 Kuroo looked in the crowd for Kageyama and shot him a glare. Kageyama did not notice, too busy whispering something in a laughing Hinata’s ear. Kuroo sighed. This whole night was a mistake. He should not have come. Damn Kageyama.   
   
 But of course it was not entirely his fault.   
   
 Kenma sitting and standing alone drew attention, Saeko’s worried looks, Hinata’s earlier – everyone could figure it out. The whole party had figured it out. They were no longer together, and how the gossips grew.   
   
 Kageyama.   
   
 Kuroo sneered as he walked closer.   
   
  _Damn you, Kageyama._    
   
 “But,” Kuroo murmured, “I know a way to get back at him.”   
   
 Hinata said something quietly, and Kageyama’s face flushed red. Hinata was mid-laugh when he glanced past Kageyama and saw Kuroo walking up to them. His laugh died, and his eyes brightened.   
   
 Kageyama looked behind him. “Ser Kuroo.”   
   
 “Hinata.” Kuroo offered a hand. “A dance?”   
   
 Hinata blinked.   
   
 Kageyama looked between them. “We.” His eyes drifted. “We are done for the night. We are going to leave now.”   
   
 “Come, it is your house, Ser Kageyama.” Kuroo kept his hand offered and smiled when Hinata’s hand fell into his. “You have nowhere to go, the party is still going.”   
   
 Kageyama frowned; it was different than his usual frown, his scowl, this one was with soft lines, curious eyes, worried eyes. “Kuroo.”   
   
 “At ease, friend.” Kuroo placed his other hand on Kageyama’s shoulder, offering a warm smile. “I have not had a single dance all night, and I would love to be with the house’s best dancer.”   
   
 Hinata grinned.   
   
 Kageyama seemed almost to pout. “I think—”   
   
 “Come dance, Hinata,” Kuroo interrupted him. “Or may I call you Shouyou now?”   
   
 “Whatever you wish, Ser Kuroo!” Hinata turned his body towards the dance floor, turned his back towards Kageyama. “I will dance.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Daichi both hated and loved his job at times. He had made quite the assortment of foods. Dumplings made of thick flour and heavy meats served as a substantial snack, he had caviar, smoked fish, and as well as two kinds of salads—one being crab meat and corn, and the other being a mix of chicken, boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, and carrots. The second salad was quite common on the Island; however, Daichi made his with a small twist.   
   
 He added just a few drops of beet juice to change the colour to a slightly reddish-pinkish version.   
   
 Although, taste-wise, it was not that different, colour and perception made everyone think there were secret ingredients inside.   
   
 “Alright,” Daichi called out, “We should be serving the next batch of food soon!”   
   
 “But, Daichi,” came one of the servants assigned to him, “There is still quite the food left on the tables.”   
   
 “They are not eating?” Daichi raised an eyebrow. “What is happening out there? Someone putting on a show?”   
   
 “Something of that nature…”   
   
 Daichi pursed his lips. He knew it was not his business, nor his duty, to go out there and see—so he stayed where he was, preparing more food. However, his stomach tightened slightly… he did not particularly have a good feeling about whatever was going on out there.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Yamaguchi was at the bar, pouring another drink when he said, “Tobio,” quietly, “This is your last one.”   
   
 “Are you forgetting your place, servant?” Kageyama glared, drunken eyes. “One word and I can send your whole family to be working in the mines. Is that what you want?”   
   
 “Tobio—”   
   
 “Is that what you want?”   
   
 “N-No…”   
   
 “Then pour.”   
   
 Yamaguchi poured another.   
   
 Kageyama was satisfied and he turned to look at the dance floor again, glaring as he downed another glass.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Dancing with a person was a dialogue, a transaction, a movement, a time where bodies synchronised and came together. Every dance was an exchange, between one person’s natural energies and another person’s way of doing things. When someone led a dance, it meant they put their style, their way, as the guiding factor, but if someone was a skilled dancer—such as Kuroo—they could make it an even dance even if they led.   
   
 But of course, Islander dancing had no lead, only taking turns.   
   
 But Kuroo knew how to give and how to take, and how to read people.   
   
 Shouyou Hinata was a person who wore his heart on his sleeve, who expressed his style, his way of being, way of doing, with such vim and vigor that Kuroo knew the exact tempo he had to fall in with him. It was their first dance (and everyone watching knew it as well) yet they danced perfectly in sync.   
   
 Kuroo melded himself into Hinata, letting Hinata lead the dance without knowing.   
   
 Each flourish was a whip, each stomp a thunderclap.   
   
 But it was not all that Kuroo did. He let his hands linger on Hinata’s skin, a second or two longer, knowing no one would see it but—   
   
 Kuroo glanced over to the bar, making eye contact with Kageyama as he pulled Hinata a little closer.   
   
 The dance normally did not have much touching, but Hinata did not seem to mind.   
   
 Hinata was lost in the music, the movements, the stomps, the flourishes—   
   
 Kuroo knew he was not seeing the way he was being toyed with.   
   
 Kageyama sat at the bar, scowling, glaring.   
   
 Kuroo smirked; and, again, let his hands linger on Hinata’s body longer than they should have.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Ah, Ser Kenma—”   
   
 Kenma turned around, glancing over his shoulder. He was on the second floor, one of the balconies that looked over the dance floor. He said nothing as he glanced to the servant, but he did not need to.   
   
 “I was trying to find your mother, to let her know we are going to delay the next batch of food for the guests, as there is still plenty left on the table.”   
   
 Kenma glanced over to the tables at the sides of the room, and gave a nod.   
   
 The servant gave a light bow and left.   
   
 Kenma’s looked down.   
   
 Kuroo.   
   
 Kenma watched from afar with eyes narrowed. He wondered, quietly, what Kuroo was doing dancing with Hinata. He could not entirely rule out that this was Hinata’s doing, but something told him Kuroo was not simply just dancing. No. Kuroo was always hyperaware of the party, worried what people were thinking of him; if anything, he had a feeling Kuroo knew exactly what people were saying while they were dancing.   
   
 He wondered if Hinata knew.   
   
 Kenma wondered if Kageyama knew.   
   
 Ah.   
   
 It clicked.   
   
 Kenma’s eyes scanned the crowd for his brother-in-law and his eyes drifted over not to Kageyama, but to a worried Yamaguchi looking at him, eyes pleading.   
   
 Kenma moved.   
   
 He moved down the stairs and slipped through the crowd with speed, clasping Kageyama’s arm. “Tobio.”   
   
 Kageyama glared. “What do you want?”   
   
 Kenma moved his head back; Kageyama’s breath was covered in alcohol. He could feel his own stomach gurgle in response. “You have had enough to drink.”   
   
 “That mongrel! He—”   
   
 Kenma’s grip was ice on Kageyama’s wrist, cutting him off. “Keep your voice down, do you understand me?”   
   
 Kageyama leaned in, eyes blurry, swaying in his seat. “That fool… I invited him here, and for what?”   
   
 Kenma glanced at the dance floor, shooting Hinata a glare. Hinata saw it, somehow, through his dance, and he made his next stomp the last. He turned to Kageyama, hoping Hinata would get here soon enough. “Listen, no more drink tonight. Understood?”   
   
 Kageyama glared.   
   
 “Is something the matter?”   
   
 Not that voice.   
   
 Kenma glanced over his shoulder. “Kuro.”   
   
 Kageyama spat out, “Swine.”   
   
 Kuroo gave a smile. “Excuse me, Kageyama?”   
   
 Kageyama lurched his hand away from Kenma and grabbed Kuroo’s arm. “Come with me.”   
   
 The two left.   
   
 Hinata looked at him, and it was obvious he was just now piecing together what had occurred.   
   
 Kenma sighed and ordered a glass of wine for himself. He, too, downed it far too fast.   
   
 Minutes later, Hinata whispered, “Kenma.”   
   
 Kenma glanced to where they had gone. “We should not leave them alone for this long…”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Come!” Kuroo yelled across the frozen river, the dark moonlight making it hard to see each other, but he was sure there was no one else. “Sober yourself under the cold air, Kageyama—”   
   
 “Enough!” Kageyama yelled in return, “Your damn games! You know how you feel and still you joke like this! You do this!”   
   
 “Enough, friend.” Kuroo sighed. “Listen, it is as you say, a joke… That is all it was. You have had too much liquor, that is all this is.”   
   
 “Fool. Wretched! I opened my home to you.”   
   
 “It is barely your home, Kageyama.”   
   
 Kageyama’s voice echoed across raging ice, “Even  _now_  you mock me!”   
   
 “How can I not?” Kuroo snapped, “You are acting like a fool! You have made something of nothing.”   
   
 “This is not nothing to me! You mock my feelings, my values, and my friendship! I brought you here so you would not be so insufferably alone! I wanted you to reconnect, to matter, to—”   
   
 “And some good that did!” Kuroo thrashed his arms. “Gossips and hatred! People avoided me like I carried a plague! Your mindlessness is what started this entire problem!”   
   
 Kageyama crossed the distance between them and raised his arm to punch.   
   
 Kuroo braced himself, but—   
   
 “Tobio!” Hinata grabbed Kageyama’s arm. “Enough!”   
   
 “Let me go you damn whore!”   
   
 “Kageyama!” Hinata roared, “You little—” And Hinata raised his foot and—   
   
  _A thunderclap._    
   
 He stomped.   
   
 Cracks lined the ground beneath them.   
   
 They stood still.   
   
 Kenma adjusted his coat and whispered, “We are on a frozen lake… Let us find, another place to discuss this.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo let Kenma take lead as they moved several paces away, off the frozen river, and onto snowy solid ground. Their lips were all sealed tight, and they stood at a distance from each other. Kuroo and Kageyama did not have their coats, and they shivered slightly, but Kuroo could not care less.   
   
 In the darkness, he could still see the snowflakes fall, though.   
   
 “You,” Kageyama murmured, “Dancing with any fucking man, you throw yourself at all of them. You act like a prostitute but you do not even charge!”   
   
 Hinata took a step back, eyes wide.   
   
 Kenma yanked Kageyama’s arm. “Listen, Tobio. You are upset, I understand, but. Do not take this too far.”   
   
 “Hey.” Hinata frowned. “What are you, on his side?”   
   
 “That is not it, Shouyou.”   
   
 “I can dance with whomever I want!” Hinata puffed out his chest. “We already discussed this, Tobio. You have no right yelling at me for what we already agreed on! And, at what point does dancing equate to sex? You are bloody drunk and you were going to make a scene in my damn home!”   
   
 “In your damn home!” Kageyama shrugged Kenma off and stepped forward. “It was in your damn home that I was raised, writing my garbage poems for you, pining over you, did everything I could to be worthy of you, begged to spend time with you—and this  _mongrel!”_  Kageyama spun to glare at Kuroo, pointing at him. “Is the one who started this problem!”   
   
 Kuroo sighed. “Kageyama—”   
   
 “Enough! Tomorrow. You know the time, and I will tell you the place. I challenge you—to a duel.”   
   
 Kuroo’s eyes widened.   
   
 Hinata whipped his head. “No!”   
   
 Kenma whispered, “Kageyama…”   
   
 “This is dishonour.” Kageyama’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I will bring the pistols. Twenty paces, a shot.”   
   
 “Kageyama!” Hinata grabbed his arm. “Have you lost your mind?” His expression softened and he leaned into his fiancé. “This is nothing! It is simply a dance, it is just a party… it means nothing. This is all nothing…”   
   
 Kenma shook his head. “Tobio. This is not worth your life.”   
   
 “Tobio…” Hinata smiled brightly. “Our marriage, our future… We can do all of these things without—”   
   
 “I accept.”   
   
 Kenma’s eyes widened as he glanced to Kuroo. “…What?”   
   
 “A duel, Kageyama?” Kuroo put a hand on his heart. “I  _accept.”_  


	5. The Duel of Poets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, but -- I really love this chapter. So, I hope you enjoy it, <3
> 
> * * *

_The cold winter is everlasting,  
Six years, came and went.  
Their smiles and laughs contrasting,  
Hearts twisted, shattered - bent.  
    
Their meetings are years apart.  
Attempts are made to outsmart  
Each other, as if they are foe,  
As if they’re on death row.  
    
The cat’s anger is still flaring,  
For his closest have been hurt,  
By foolishness too curt.  
    
An engagement wearing, tearing.  
They do not share their bliss.  
They would not even kiss._  
  

* * *

    
Rhythms & Rhymes  
Chapter 5: The Duel of Poets  
  

* * *

  
    
 In the olden days, the Island was a land that had a much larger discrepancy between rich and poor. Only a few nobles had it all, while the rest were slaves. Gruesome times that the Island loved to pretend did not exist. Back then, when a noble dishonoured another noble, he would arm his slaves and send them with torches and weapons to attack. They were – somewhat – like miniature versions of war. The bloodshed was large, and the revolts that eventually took place shook the nation.    
    
 While it birthed a somewhat more liberated lower class and a middle class, it also birthed duels.    
    
 Duels – a noble’s fight.    
    
 They were described in Mainland textbooks as a gentleman’s fight.    
    
 Instead of battling out of anger and blood, one battled out of honour.    
    
 The Sers of the Island would fight themselves, originally with blades – but soon pistols. Swordsmanship was a skill that could be refined much quicker, much easier, than the flintlock pistols that were more fashionable. The biggest reason to their popularity, however, was death. Swordfights would end in first blood, gunfights would end in first wound – often a wound that killed.    
    
 The Nobles of the Island enjoyed knowing that they had defeated their opponent, permanently, in the name of their great, great honour.    
    
 But dueling had etiquette and rules. Of course, this was a noble battle, not a savage war. Each fight had the rules that made it a proper fight. For example, a Ser can only challenge someone of their rank. One cannot duel a person of lower or higher rank – for such is savagery and either abuse of or hunger for power. Only flintlock pistols specified for duels may be used, not a Ser’s custom gun. The two Sers who have agreed to duel cannot see each other before the fight. Each Ser may bring a second, if agreed upon, who would take their place if they are killed in combat.    
    
 Seconds are not particularly easy to find for personal duels, so many Sers wish to avoid it completely; however, if there are no seconds, then there are no witnesses, and rumours often fly that the duel was a cheat.    
    
 Duels began rather simply.    
    
 The offender would ask if they could apologise to the offended. The offended would give an insult, and then an apology. If the original offender can accept an apology, then they are often allowed to apologise. An insult for an insult, an apology for an apology, and the duel is settled.    
    
 If apologies cannot be made, then each Ser must turn their back to one another, and walk ten steps. Twenty paces between them. Then they turn. A Ser may choose to either walk forward, or shoot—but a Ser must stay where they are after they fire their first shot.    
    
 After all, a duel is a noble’s fight.    
    
 It is not savagery – it is honour.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kageyama’s eyes opened in the dark frosted light. Unlike the others, he had always had a good sense of time. Since he was a child, he seemed to know roughly which hour of the clock it was. Now, he lay in the warmth of his bed, sheets wrapped around them, Hinata curled in his chest. His little Sunfire, Starfire, Starshard—his Sunlight. He kissed him on the forehead, eyes gently shut.    
    
 It may be the last time he would see Hinata.    
    
 Hinata slept with a relaxed face. They had made love last night, and Hinata had made Kageyama promise not to take part in any silly duel come the morning.    
    
 Kageyama had agreed.    
    
 Hinata had slept easy.    
    
 Kageyama had lied.    
    
 Hinata never liked being kissed in his sleep, but Kageyama stole a single kiss more – his last – a gentle, slow, cautious kiss. Like their first, he remembered. Like their first, being only fourteen, under the shelter of a long stone archway in the gardens, during a terrible storm. They were cold and freezing, and Hinata had held onto Kageyama’s frozen hands, worried about just how cold he had gotten.    
    
 Kageyama, at the time, could not care less about his hands. He had been trying to figure out how to get inside safely. A gust of wind and rain had overturned one of the marble columns and blocked their path.    
    
 Hinata was yelling about how Kageyama was distracted? Kageyama couldn’t quite remember right. Kageyama had snapped – he remembered that – and pushed Hinata against a wall as a means of aggression… but (even Hinata agreed, years later) he could not bring himself to use enough force to scare Hinata, and instead held him close, against the wall.    
    
 They had kissed, then, young, inexperienced, worried about storms that could end their lives.    
    
 Not duels.    
    
 Kageyama untangled himself from Hinata’s limbs, pulled himself out of the sheets.    
    
 He had not slept.    
    
 Kageyama walked over to his desk.    
    
 There was a glass sword.    
    
 It was a present he had gotten, from Iwaizumi, when he had gotten the King’s Approval. It was a rounded glass sword, filled with prime aged whiskey. He held the sword up, by the blade, and opened the lid. He took a long hard drink, hoping it would ease his nerves. He closed it carefully, setting it down. He didn’t want to drink too much.    
    
 After all, Hinata would need it if Kageyama did not return.    
    
 He dressed himself quickly, and stepped out into the hall.    
    
 Unlike the others, he had always had a good sense of time. Since he was a child, he seemed to know roughly which hour of the clock it was. Now, he knew it must be three or four in the morning. The duel was at six, but he knew Kenma would wake up early, try to stop him. Kenma was no fool – Kenma knew not even Hinata could stop him now.    
    
 He moved quietly, knowing the whole house was sleeping. Even the early rising servants were worn out from the party.    
    
 Kageyama moved to where a toolbox was kept in Saeko’s study. He opened it.    
    
 Two pistols.    
    
 They were placed in perfectly fitting fluffed leather holsters.    
    
 Kageyama took both pistols, making sure each was fully loaded. He considered unloading Kuroo’s gun, after all there would be no seconds, no witnesses, but he decided against it. After all, Kuroo had…    
    
 Kuroo had helped him much when he was new to the Mainland.    
    
 Yes…    
    
 Kageyama’s hands softened around the grips of the pistols.    
    
 But.    
    
 It was the look Kuroo had given him, when dancing with Hinata—    
    
 His grip firmed and he put the pistols back. He shut the box and closed the clasps tight. He grabbed it and walked out.    
    
 Kageyama, Kuroo – soon, one of them would die.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kuroo appreciated the tea. Sugawara had insisted on giving him a light breakfast and a cup of tea before he went. Sugawara said it would help him in the duel, and Kuroo did not doubt it – but he doubted the real reason Suga did this was the duel.    
    
 “Are you sure about this?”    
    
 Kuroo scoffed. There it was.    
    
 Sugawara tucked his hair behind his ear—it had gotten long. “Are you sure about this duel?”    
    
 Kuroo chewed on the piece of toasted bread, a light coating of wildberry jam making it sweet yet tart. He swallowed. “I am, yes. Thank you for trying to stop me, Sugawara.”    
    
 Sugawara took a deep, cautious breath. “Ser Kuroo—”    
    
 “I signed my will last night,” Kuroo explained casually, “Should I die, all my funds will go to you. Everything I own, all my property, all of my—”    
    
 “Kuroo!” Sugawara shut his mouth. “S-Ser Kuroo…”    
    
 “Do me a favour, Suga.” Kuroo leaned forward in his chair. “Speak plainly to me now.”    
    
 Sugawara swung his hand—    
    
 Kuroo’s eyes widened.    
    
 Sugawara struck him across the face, a loud slap echoing in the empty kitchen. “By every ring of hell, Kuroo, listen. I could care less of money and belongings! Your life, Ser Kageyama’s life—this is not worth… this!”    
    
 Kuroo blinked twice. His cheek stung. Were he like the other nobles, perhaps he would have ended Sugawara’s life then and there. He fantasised about it, and it brought him some comfort truly, but he knew he had deserved that slap. Instead, he gave his signature smile. “I will not lose this duel, Sugawara. You have no reason to be concerned.”    
    
 Sugawara turned away, walking off.    
    
 Kuroo took another bite of his toast.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kageyama sat upon the frozen river, sitting on Saeko’s toolbox, in a small clearing of snow. He assumed Saeko would not be happy if she knew he was sitting on her dueling pistols toolbox, but he figured what she did not know could not hurt her – after all – not much would matter anymore. Kageyama mused that it must have been five of the clock now, nearing six but not quite.    
    
 A gust of wind rustled the snow off the ground, sending it in swirls skyward.    
    
 Kageyama watched it, mind empty. In his hand was one of the guns.    
    
 Kuroo was late.    
    
 Kageyama glanced to the flintlock pistol. He fantasised about shooting Kuroo as soon as he saw him. That would be a daring way to ensure that Kuroo knew what he thought of him being late on this fated duel.    
    
 The snow continued to swirl, the wind continued to howl, and the sun began to climb over the horizon, giving sunrays of warmth to the frosty field.    
    
 Kageyama glanced to the side, and his eyebrow raised. “So.” Kageyama stood. “He finally showed up…”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 The sunbeams were more beautiful than Kuroo had ever recalled. There was an odd thing about death that made life all the more beautiful. He heard, once, the famed poet Washijou wrote his world-renowned poem of lilies after defeating the playwright Nekomata in a duel. A single shot had pierced Nekomata’s heart and it had ended before it began. Washijou was furiously writing poems after that, filled with inspiration.    
    
 He wondered, quietly, if the same would happen to him.    
    
 He hoped not – that was a morbid thought.    
    
 Kuroo continued to walk on the frozen ice, hearing the crunch of snow beneath his leather black boots. Kuroo straightened his back upon seeing Kageyama, offering a small smile and a nod of his head.    
    
 Kageyama returned the nod, but not the smile.    
    
 Kuroo hummed as he walked close enough to examine his face. “Will you accept my apology, Ser Kageyama?”    
    
 “No.”    
    
 “Ah, well, it was as I expected.” Kuroo’s eyes narrowed. “You have not slept. Sobered, but sleepless. One is worse than the other.”    
    
 “Mock me again and we will not wait twenty paces.”    
    
 “I meant no harm.”    
    
 Kageyama scoffed and opened the toolbox. “Here.”    
    
 Kuroo took the gun and cocked it to see if the chambers were loaded. He nodded. “Very well. Twenty paces, a shot.”    
    
 “Do not show me more dishonour, Kuroo. I expect you to play by the rules.”    
    
 “As I do you.”    
    
 They turned, pressing their backs against each other.    
    
 Kuroo took a breath.    
    
 Kageyama muttered, “Now.”    
    
 They took a step. One.    
    
 Two.    
    
 Three.    
    
 Four.    
    
 Five.    
    
 Kageyama snarled. Six.    
    
 Seven. Kuroo took a breath.    
    
 Eight.    
    
 Nine.    
    
 Kuroo gripped his pistol.    
    
 Kageyama glanced over his shoulder.    
    
  _Ten._     
    
 A single shot.    
    
 It echoed far and wide over the ice and snow, louder than howling winds.    
    
 Kuroo stood, gun in hand, eyes looking over the distance to his foe.    
    
 Kageyama’s grip on his gun faltered, and his face arched in disbelief. He aimed his pistol and fired.    
    
 The sound echoed far and wide.    
    
 Kageyama fired again, and again, and again.    
    
 Kuroo stood still.    
    
 Kageyama yanked the trigger three more times, until his gun clicked which signalled no more bullets.    
    
 Kuroo laughed loud. “You always were a poor shot, Kageyama!”    
    
 “Shoot me, damnit!”    
    
 He tossed his gun aside. “And for what good would it serve? Would I truly take you from your Sunfire?”    
    
 Kageyama growled and then  _charged._     
    
 Kuroo’s eyes widened.    
    
 Kageyama crossed the distance, tackling Kuroo to the ground. There was a sharp cry as Kuroo hit the ice, the sound of creaking beneath him, and Kageyama yelled as he raised his fists. “Damn you!” He punched with as much force as he could muster. “Damn you! Damn you!”    
    
 Kuroo raised his arms to protect his head, vaguely hearing noises. Voices? Screaming? Shouting.    
    
 Ah, they had gotten here sooner than expected.    
    
 Kuroo shoved Kageyama off of him, finding him rather light, his punches rather pathetic, and he opened his mouth to retort, but—    
    
 The sound of creaking grew beneath him.    
    
 Kageyama’s eyes widened with a realisation that Kuroo did not understand.    
    
 Kuroo felt pain.    
    
 Kageyama kicked at him with such desperation, such force, that Kuroo was thrown back a foot.    
    
  _A thunderclap._     
    
 The ice cracked.    
    
 It gave way.    
    
 Kuroo, sliding along the ice, watched as Kageyama was swallowed by sudden water.    
    
 “He can’t swim!” Hinata yelled, “He can’t—Kageyama! He can’t—”    
    
 But a blur moved past Hinata.    
    
 Kuroo’s eyes widened. “Kenma—”    
    
 Kenma dove into the water, disappearing from sight.    
    
 An arm yanked at Kuroo, pulling him back, and Kuroo looked back to see Sugawara.    
    
 “Spread out!” Saeko’s commanding boom was heard by all, “The ice will crack if we’re not careful, spread out your weight!”    
    
 Kuroo watched. “Kenma…” He tried to reach forward, but Sugawara pulled him back. “Kenma!”    
    
 “Kagey—” Hinata gasped, sharply, and a servant was pulling him away. “Ken…”    
    
 They broke the surface, Kageyama breathing in a desperate gulp of air.    
    
 Saeko and two others Kuroo didn’t recognise pulled him out.    
    
 Kenma, still in the water, helped Kageyama up on the ice – before he sank below.    
    
 Kuroo lurched forward. “Kenma!”    
    
 Kuroo had not noticed how many had come, and he could not count now. But some people were taking care of Kageyama, pulling off his icy clothes and replacing them with warm ones, holding torches close.    
    
 Kenma broke the surface again, struggling to breathe.    
    
 Saeko grabbed his shirt, yanking him up, despite the cracks growing on the ice she stood on.    
    
 Kuroo shook his head, wanting to warn her, but—    
    
 Saeko tossed Kenma back, like a ragdoll, sending him crashing against ice and snow.    
    
 The ice cracked and gave way.    
    
 But Saeko backed up in time, stumbling back onto the snow.    
    
 The same two others were pulling her to safety.    
    
 Sugawara let go of Kuroo and ran over to help.    
    
 Kuroo was left alone, staying where he was, watching Kenma shiver uncontrollably. Kuroo vaguely understood Kenma had tossed his coats before jumping in the water, making him easier to pull out, but ultimately—    
    
 Kenma was—    
    
 Kenma had ice in his veins…    
    
 Kuroo could barely breathe.    
    
 Kenma was dying.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kuroo had stayed in the Saeko Manor for longer than he expected. There was no point going back home, really, Sugawara was here, aiding the medics in any way he could. Kuroo was sitting on a bench, in the hallway, outside the two doors that Kenma and Kageyama were behind. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together, and resting his forehead on his hands. His eyes were shut.    
    
 The torch kept him warm, he vaguely noted.    
    
 He had not eaten, had not drank, had nothing except the breakfast over twelve hours ago.    
    
 Hinata stood, not able to sit, a few paces away. Hinata had been silent over the past twelve hours, only speaking once at the midway point, asking if Kuroo had thrown the fight on purpose.    
    
 Kuroo had said yes.    
    
 Hinata whispered something Kuroo did not hear, but said nothing else.    
    
 Kuroo continued to wait.    
    
 The medics and doctors first only acknowledged Hinata, but as the hours passed they ignored even him and continued their work, going to and from places, moving in a hurry to talk to others.    
    
 Kageyama and Kenma were both in their rooms, recovering. They could have died. No. Kuroo shook his head. They could still die. They most likely would, if they were not tended to very carefully.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 “I will tell the medics,” Sugawara kept his voice quiet despite no need for so, “That their tools and cloths have been cleaned.”    
    
 Daichi gave a warm sigh as he kept the water boiling over the fire. “You are a blessing, Dove.”    
    
 Sugawara gave a small smile, but it quickly faded. He continued to fold other cloths and work on the other tasks. Realistically, he should not have been doing them in the kitchen. Realistically, he should not be helping at all, really, but he chose to stay. He took a deep breath of the warm air and tilted his head at the sound of footsteps coming his way. “Ser,” he said with a deep nod of his head.    
    
 “You are still here, Suga?” Saeko’s tired expression had more wrinkles and creases than usual. “You do not wish to depart home? It is getting dark.”    
    
 “It has already gotten dark, I am afraid.” Sugawara forced a little laugh. “And I shall stay as long as Ser Kuroo wishes to stay. I will do my utmost to be useful while I am here.”    
    
 “Ser Kuroo,” Saeko spoke quietly. “He is still here?”    
    
 “Ah.” Sugawara sighed. “He has not moved in ages, I fear.”    
    
 Saeko tilted her head for a moment, eyes softening.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 “Coffee?”    
    
 Kuroo straightened his back, eyes wide as he looked at the steaming cup in front of him.    
    
 Saeko held it out for him.    
    
 Kuroo shut his eyes and looked down. “I should not—”    
    
 “Have some.” Saeko pushed it forward. “It is made with the richest cream we have. You have not eaten anything… this will nourish you some.”    
    
 Kuroo looked at her again, frowning – not at her, but at himself.    
    
 Saeko pushed the cup forward again, into Kuroo’s hands. She took a seat next to him, eyeing the doors. “Thank you, Ser Kuroo.”    
    
 Kuroo tensed, taking in a sharp breath. “For what? For this?”    
    
 “For not shooting my son.”    
    
 Kuroo clasped the drink, noting how warm it was, radiating heat into his frozen fingertips.    
    
 “He is my son-in-law, he is mine. I am very protective of what is mine, Kuroo.”    
    
 “Forgive me,” Kuroo whispered. “Forgive my impertinence, my foolishness… I never thought the ice…”    
    
 “It is fine.” Saeko smiled. “They will live.”    
    
 “The doctors said—”    
    
 “They are mine,” Saeko reminded. “They are my kids, and it takes more than ice water to take down my kids. Mine are strong.”    
    
 Kuroo took a deep breath.    
    
 “Promise me you will drink what I gave you. Sugawara tells me you prefer coffee to tea.”    
    
 “I…” Kuroo closed his eyes. “I do, yes.”    
    
 “I as well.” Saeko let out a little laugh. “Get some rest, Ser Kuroo. They will recover. I will send for you when they are well.”    
    
 Kuroo took a cautious breath. “Thank you, Ser Saeko. You are… you are truly kindness itself.”    
    
 “I am not kindness.” She laughed. “I am just someone who knows what it was like, to be so young and lost.” She stood up slowly. “You and Kenma, you think you are so old now that you’re both twenty-seven.” She smiled. “Remember when you were ten? And you thought you were so old, because your age had two digits? The other adults told you, oh yes, you are so old now. It is the same at ten as it is at seventeen, and the same as it is at twenty-seven, and thirty-seven, and forty-seven…” She laughed again. “We always think we are wiser, older, than we are. It would do you well for someone my age to remind you that you have more to grow. You always will.”    
    
 Kuroo glanced down at his coffee; and, carefully, took a sip. It was rich, full-bodied, warm, but creamy and slightly sweet – lavender, he noted. The local lavender-infused honey, most likely. He never thought of coffee and lavender, but the Islanders often put it in their teas, so he was not surprised to taste it in coffee.    
    
 He quietly wondered how they had local honey if there was snow. Could bees live here as well?    
    
 “Rest well, Ser Kuroo.”    
    
 “Ah.” Kuroo dipped his head. “Thank you, Ser Saeko.”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 A week passed, and finally a letter holding Saeko’s crest was delivered in the mail. It had been a hard week. Sugawara, initially, did not look much at Kuroo, but by the third day Sugawara broke down and admitted how happy he was that Kuroo had thrown the fight. Sugawara did not blame Kuroo for the ice cracking, and said that such a thing was beyond anyone’s knowing or control.    
    
 Kuroo felt a slight weight lift from his chest.    
    
 By day eight, the letter from the Saeko estate arrived.    
    
 He learned that Saeko had written the letter herself, as Sugawara told him after seeing the handwriting.    
    
 Kuroo read every word. The recovery was going well. Kageyama still needed care, but was able to eat and walk, though he spent most of his days resting. Kenma, on the other hand, was quite alert and awake. He could walk and eat, but was simply not in the mood to do so for more than was required.    
    
 Saeko also asked for him to come by in the evening.    
    
 Kenma had requested him.    
    
 Kuroo took a sharp breath, reading once more Kenma’s poem that he had written. He slipped the letter in the original blue envelope, slipping it into his Selturs. He did not wear his sashes (as such was improper if it was not a party), but the formal wear was appropriate given the social situation. He did double-check with Sugawara, who smiled and wished him the best.    
    
 “Master, let me warn you, I doubt he will have anything nice to say to you.”    
    
 “I am well aware.” Kuroo took a deep breath. “He has most likely invited me in simply to throw me out of the house.”    
    
 “Yep.”    
    
 Kuroo ran a hand through his hair. “But I shall go. Because he requested me. Because… he deserved better from me. From the first time our eyes met… he deserved better.”    
    
 Sugawara said nothing.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 When he arrived at the Saeko estate, looking his best, it was Yamaguchi who let him in and told him that he could find his way to the room Kenma was resting in. He walked through the halls, walking in the opposite direction as Hinata – who was surprised to see him, but also had a sad look in his eyes. Kuroo wanted to say something, but Hinata quickly turned the corner to a midway point between them.    
    
 Kuroo was aware that was Saeko’s study, and that Hinata had no business there except to avoid him.    
    
 Kuroo lowered his eyes and continued his walk.    
    
 He walked to the door and stopped.    
    
 Deep breath.    
    
 He knocked twice.    
    
 “I do not want supper.”    
    
 Kuroo opened his mouth before he could think, “I am not supper.”    
    
 Silence.    
    
 Kuroo winced, pinching the bridge of his nose.    
    
 “Come in.”    
    
 Kuroo took a second before he turned the handle, opening the door slightly and stepping in.    
    
 The bed was in the centre of a small stone room. There was a circular rug on the floor, and many shelves where medicinal ingredients were held. A chair was drawn up by the bedside that Kenma rested upon.    
    
 Kuroo met Kenma’s eyes.    
    
 For someone who had been drowned in ice, Kenma’s eyes were definitely fire.    
    
 Kuroo bowed lower than he should have before he straightened his back. He stepped in, closing the door behind him. He swallowed hard. He walked towards the chair. “May I sit?”    
    
 “If you wish.”    
    
 Kuroo sat and looked at Kenma.    
    
 His skin was pale, with some blotches of black on the far side of his face. He wore a nightgown, and Kuroo could see more of patches of sickly yellow, purples, and black. His eyes widened and he looked to Kenma.    
    
 “Frostbite,” Kenma exclaimed. “It is temporary. My skin will recover, it will disappear, do not look so guiltily upon me, Kuro. I want nothing of your pity.”    
    
 “Kenma I—”    
    
 “Watch your words.” Kenma leaned in a little bit and lowered his voice, “I am holding back howls of terror that I want to flay you alive with… do you understand?”    
    
 Kuroo nodded slowly. “Kenma… I only wanted to…”    
    
 “Yes, yes…” Kenma closed his eyes, exhausted, and leaned back against the frame of the bed. “Look at you… tried to be so great to call the fight. You thought Tobio would be overcome with his foolishness and repent for his anger, did you…? You thought it would all work out, did you…?” He let a long, drawn-out sigh. “Again… always looking down on people, Kuro…”    
    
 Kuroo opened his mouth—    
    
 “You want people to act exactly like you want them to.” Kenma closed his eyes. “People are just the pieces on the board game, if you play your moves right, the great realisations will happen… everything will go your way. Of course, of course…” His eyes opened and he straightened his posture. “But, Kuro, listen to this.”    
    
 Kuroo licked his lip and leaned in.    
    
 “This is not one of your stories, this is not one of your poems. I am sure this may have been a wonderful story in your head, a climax of climaxes… but when you play these games, you play with lives.” Kenma showed teeth for a moment before he forced himself to breathe. “We will be fine. Tobio will be fine. Shouyou will be fine. I – will be fine. But. You,” Kenma intoned roughly, “Are not welcome here. You. Are never welcome here again. Do you understand that?”    
    
 Kuroo let his head fall into his hands. “Kenma, please… I only wanted—”    
    
 “Look at me, Kuro.”    
    
 Kuroo lifted his head.    
    
 Kenma made eye contact. “You have only served to complicate my life. You are a problem. Do you understand…? You are a problem. That is all you are Tetsurou Kuro. I used to read your poems, I got lost in your stories, of how the world is against me, how every turn is a unjustly closed door… Now, now I understand them more… Now I understand that you cause your own problems, all your problems, with your attempts to guide people… your dramatics, your flair. Is it fear…?”    
    
 Kuroo swallowed hard.    
    
 “Do you fear? Do you fear… that if you live life safely, your poems will run dry? Do you chase danger – like a youth – to inspire your stupid, brash poems?”    
    
 Kuroo’s eyes fell to the floor.    
    
 “You cause all your problems… and you simply wish to blame them on others…”    
    
 “I…” Kuroo shook his head. “I will leave, then.”    
    
 “Do so. You will not be invited to the parties any longer.”    
    
 “I will leave the Island,” Kuroo assured, “Return to the Mainland.”    
    
 “Good.” Kenma smiled. “Perhaps someone there will appreciate your antics.”    
    
 “Your sashes—”    
    
 “Keep them.” Kenma shook his head. “Keep everything. I want none of it. I want nothing of it, and I want nothing of you ever again.” 


	6. Of Plagues and Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this fic will be about 9 chapters? With a possible 10th extra chapter that's not exactly a chapter, but. It'll make sense in context. But! I just really wanted to say a huge thank you for the support for the past few chapters. ; . ; You guys are amazing. Thank you so much! This chapter and the next are my top two fav chapters, so. I hope you enjoy~
> 
> * * *

_But there are strength in demons,  
That on the mind they haunt.   
Anger brought out like beacons,   
And each other they taunt.   
   
What was built is now breaking,   
Gentle mornings now pain and aching,   
It is done, it is war.   
What was it all for?   
   
The battle of poets,   
Destroy, break, untie - more.   
What was it all for?   
   
The battle of poets,   
Yes, his lover had many flaws,   
But why did he use his claws?_    
  

* * *

  
Rhythms & Rhymes   
Chapter 6: Of Plagues and Health   
  

* * *

  
   
 Kuroo had been on the Mainland when he heard of the plague. A plague, infected grain, had spread through the Island, quickly and decisively. His dream to maybe return to the Island was heavily staved off. He returned, instead, to his cafe, to his study, writing up poem after poem, only occasionally hearing of the Island. Apparently to keep off the infections, they had to burn their grain. Kuroo had on purposely avoided news of the Island, but it was hard when the stalls were set up.   
   
 Donations of non-perishables to the Island.   
   
 Since they had burned the infected grain, they had burned much of the plague but also much of their food supply. Suffering food shortages, and still treating many infected, Kuroo imagined the chaos that must have been the years they fought with it.   
   
 He wrote to Suga occasionally, when sending his fifty niros. Sugawara returned a letter when he could. He said it was difficult, as communication had been cut. Too few boats were willing to set sail for some frozen, infected, plague-island to the north. Not many were willing to send a letter in return. Kuroo was sure, though, his money was arriving at a decent rate. That, of course, was the most important part.   
   
 It had been two years since the plagues had broken out, and another year passed.   
   
 He celebrated his 30th birthday with friends, friends who asked what it was like living on that crazy village where it always snowed and men wore fancy dresses to stomp and prance in. He played along with their games, to say the least, making fun of the Island, calling it crazy, but—   
   
 But there was only one subject—   
   
 “And their dances,” Bokuto spoke far too loud, “Is it true? They are crazy and wild?”   
   
 Kuroo paused, remembering the flash, the heat, the rush. “The dances were beautiful.”   
   
 The crowd of them stopped to listen.   
   
 “If nothing else, the dances were beautiful. Precise, sharp, with flourishes… Strange, by our way of being, but they were indeed beautiful.”   
   
 Three more years passed and now he was thirty-three years old.   
   
 He felt so old; and, yet, he remembered Saeko’s words, that no one was truly ever “so old”. He mused that even the seventy year olds could learn from the ninety year olds.   
   
 Thirty-three.   
   
 He submerged himself into his work, writing poems and submitting them.   
   
 A day in the cafe, he reads through an anthology of the recent King’s Approvals, and he finds a single poem by a poet named – simply –  _Vulture._  Kuroo thought the name was rather brash, a young fool, and he read each word, feeling the floorboards move beneath him. The walls expanded, ceiling becoming nonexistent, and he felt a flutter in his chest in a way that he had not felt before.   
   
 “Bokuto,” Kuroo said as he tugged his arm. “Bokuto, have you read this one?”   
   
 “Huh?” Bokuto’s head swiveled towards him and he glanced at the poem. “Ah.” He crinkled his nose. “Yes, friend, I know Vulture.”   
   
 “You do?”   
   
 “Not personally,” Bokuto assured, “But I am not much of a fan. She has many poems but uh… Wait!” Bokuto spun to face him completely. “You have not heard of Vulture!? In all these years?”   
   
 “… No?”   
   
 “Tell me you jest!”   
   
 “I do not!”   
   
 “Hah!” Bokuto placed a hand over his eyes. “And here everyone is whispering she is your nemesis!” He moved his hand away. “We even tried to see if her new poems correlated to your dips in mood!”   
   
 Kuroo frowned. “Bokuto. Explain.”   
   
 “Ah, well. She has won the King’s Approval five times, Kuroo!”   
   
 Kuroo blinked.   
   
 “She has tied you! You are completely slipping…” Bokuto looked at him softly. “Your poems do not have the taste they used to…”   
   
 Kuroo averted his eyes.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 It was the talk of the town that Kuroo had never heard of Vulture, in all the years. Kuroo understood why, of course. Vulture was all the rage in the world of poets, and Kuroo was apparently quite late to the party to discover her. He read each page of her works, loving them. Be jealous of her? Hate her? No. He loved her. Well, not her – her writing, her work, her poems. The way she crafted rhymes and rhythms was musical and it took him in a way he had not experienced in years.   
   
 “Bokuto, Bo – listen.” Kuroo shook Bokuto, despite him drinking his coffee at that moment.   
   
 Bokuto spat into his cup and made a muffled noise in protest.   
   
 “Sorry, but.” Kuroo held out the anthology. “Have you read this one? Tell me you have read this one!”   
   
 Bokuto let out a long drawn-out sigh. “Stop talking to me about Vulture!”   
   
 Kuroo blinked. “Why? Have you already read it?”   
   
 Bokuto frowned and leaned in. “Kuroo, my friend – my closest of friends – listen. You are the only man in this cafe who does not know I despise Vulture.”   
   
 “Despi—” Kuroo yanked his head back. “You despise Vulture?”   
   
 “Even our coffee makers and the cleaning staff know it well and true, friend: I despise Vulture.”   
   
 “Is it her fame? Jealousy—No, envy. For her skill? Her craft? Her musical tones?”   
   
 Bokuto let out a pained noise and waved his hand in front of his face.   
   
 Kuroo leaned in. “What could you hate of her?”   
   
 “Everything!”   
   
 “As I have said, Bokuto, she is too good!”   
   
 “She is an awful poet!”   
   
 Kuroo’s jaw dropped.   
   
 “She writes of tragedies and pain, endlessly!” Bokuto threw his hand up in the air. “Where is the love? The happiness? Where is the rest of… life? It is either sadness, or anger. Sadness. Or anger. Sadness. Anger. Sadness, anger!” Bokuto glared at Kuroo. “I despise her because there is no point for a person to write that many poems on one single subject! As a creator, she must be… awful. She is predictable. She is… She wins awards, and the King loves her, but the subject is the same. I can have her only in small doses – I would choke if I had to read her whole anthology!”   
   
 “Why…” Kuroo looked at the book in his hand, then back at Bokuto. “Are you daft!?”   
   
 Bokuto groaned.   
   
 “This is beauty! This is pain, ephemeral, on page! She!” Kuroo breathed in as much air as he could. “She has captured the essence of everything I have longed to capture in these past years!”   
   
 “Bah! I am aware!”   
   
 “What is that supposed to mean?”   
   
 “Her poems are garbage.” Bokuto leaned in. “Your poems are also garbage!”   
   
 “Excuse—” Kuroo yanked his head back. “And your poems are masterpieces, then?”   
   
 “In five years I have won  _three_  of the King’s approval.” Bokuto puffed up his chest. “And, my poem of Dancing Owls has won international acclaim!” He grinned wide. “I have done very well. What have you done, friend?”   
   
 Kuroo’s jaw dropped. He frowned and looked away. “I have… uh. Been blocked, on my writing.”   
   
 “For five years?”   
   
 “Six.”   
   
 “Ah.”   
   
 Kuroo looked away. “And your poem about owls dancing was idiotic! Why would they dance in circles anyway?”   
   
 “Because they are owls!” He leaned in closer. “And owls!” Closer. “Are!” Closer. “Perfect!”   
   
 Kuroo groaned. “Our tastes differ so… it was not always like this, was it?”   
   
 “No.” Bokuto grabbed his cup of coffee and sipped. “Not since you returned from the Island, six years ago.”   
   
 Kuroo inhaled his breath, sharply.   
   
 Bokuto eyed him. “Never did you tell me what happened there, friend, that stunned you the way you are now.”   
   
 “It is…” Kuroo scoffed. “Not worth discussing.”   
   
 Bokuto’s gaze softened, pleading questions.   
   
 Kuroo looked at his book, reading another fantastic poem to take his mind off silly things.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The letter came in the mail. He recognised the insignia instantly—   
   
 The King.   
   
 Kuroo tore it open and found two letters. He read them as quickly as he could.   
   
   
  _Dear Poet Acclaimed,  
   
 As many of you know, I oft’ host parties for all the fantastic poets who have won my Approval in the past. It fell to my attention, years ago, that I have hosted this party in every part of my wonderful kingdom – all except the Island. Now that the plague has been healed, and trade routes are open, I would like to make a formal visit to the Island, to wish them well. I thought it would be wise to host my party of poets whilst I was there as well. It may be quite the journey North for some, but I am a firm believer that new sights and new sounds are good for the heart and mind.   
   
 By this acclaim, I hereby formally invite you and yours to join me in the Suguru Manor on the eve of the next month, for we shall dine on foods wondrous and exchange many tales. I surely hope you shall be there.   
   
 With respect,   
 -His Royal Majesty, Lyovochka Fyodorovich Elizaveta Konstantin av Haiba_    
   
 Kuroo read the next letter.   
   
  _Dear Kuroo!!!!_    
   
 Kuroo sighed. “Where would the fool be without his advisors writing for him…”   
   
  _I hope you got my super great invitation!! Sir Yaku wrote it for me so it sounds better. I did not want to embarrass myself in front of a bunch of writers you know?? Well anyway! I wanted to invite you personally, because you are one of my favourites. I do not know if you have heard, but Vulture broke your record. Vulture has six King’s Approvals.  
   
 Wow!!!   
   
 Anyway,   
 I have not gotten anything special from you lately. I hope you have been doing good. I do not know if Vulture will attend, but hey maybe this will inspire you!! It is on the Island, and that sounds like it will be so much fun! I mean, uh, like. You know. You cannot really say no to the King, can you? Haha.   
   
 I cannot wait to see you again!   
   
 With respect,   
 -His Royal Majesty, Lyovochka Fyodorovich Elizaveta Konstantin av Haiba_    
   
 Kuroo read the letters again and sighed. “Well… He is correct… cannot say no to that damn Boy King…”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “C-C-Cold!” Bokuto shivered. “I want to go home, Kuroo!”   
   
 “Bah!” Kuroo laughed loud and snarky. “Come, Bokuto, this is only spring. You should see winter!”   
   
 “It gets w-worse!?”   
   
 “Oh, by far!”   
   
 Bokuto shivered and shook his head wildly. “I was a fool! You said three layers! I only put on two!”   
   
 “Fool indeed.”   
   
 “But I only have two coats!? Why would I have a third coat!?”   
   
 Kuroo laughed again, softer this time. “Come, friend. There are stores just around the corner here, if not too much has changed. We shall get you a thick Islander fur coat!”   
   
 The two of them moved into a small store, and Bokuto shook the snow off of him wildly. He was shaking and Kuroo was amused. He spoke quickly to the shopkeeper, asking if someone could help Bokuto find a thick jacket for himself. One of the staff offered to help and Bokuto was on his way.   
   
 Kuroo turned to the shopkeeper. “Hello Ser.”   
   
 The lady dipped her head. “Hello, Ser.”   
   
 “I have not been here in many years,” Kuroo explained. “Can you tell me of what has happened to Ser Saeko and her family?”   
   
 “Ah, Ser Saeko?” The woman smiled. “She does well, despite the hardships. She is kindness incarnate, how much she has donated to the poor. The same with Ser Kuroo, though I hear he is not on the Island, only sends money. But Ser Saeko does well… she is still, estranged from her partner. We have not seen Ser Akiteru in many years.”   
   
 “I see.” Kuroo smiled. “And, of her kids?”   
   
 “Her two kids do very well.”   
   
 Two? Kuroo raised an eyebrow. Not three? “Have either of them wed?”   
   
 “No,” she said curiously. “I do remember hearing the younger was engaged… I never heard much of it after that.”   
   
 “I see.” Kuroo dipped his head. “Thank you.”   
   
 So Hinata and Kageyama—   
   
 “Your name, Ser?”   
   
 Kuroo looked at her and smiled wide. “Ser Kuroo.” He dipped his head.   
   
 Her eyes widened, mouth apart. “You are—”   
   
 “Yes, yes.” Kuroo laughed. “I sent money, but that was all. I have not endured the hardship Ser Saeko has.”   
   
 “Of what for you return, if I may ask?”   
   
 “The King is hosting a party of poets, as he oft’ does.”   
   
 “Ah, yes!” Her eyes lit up. “It is the first time we are hosting the event, the Island, I mean. The Island has been… rather, in a somber mood, after the plagues that took so many…” Her eyes softened, but she smiled. “The news of the King visiting has sparked a great fire in us, though.”   
   
 “I can imagine.” Kuroo sighed. “They do not speak too highly of the Island, elsewhere, it is always a great rising of status when the King visits.”   
   
 “Indeed!”   
   
 “Kuroo!” Bokuto’s voice boomed. He held up a thick, black fur coat. “The hood has owl feathers! But they are feathers that the owls naturally shed, so no owls have been harmed! I can wear owls! Without harming owls!”   
   
 Kuroo laughed. “Well then, Ser Bokuto, is the Island such an unwelcoming place?”   
   
 “No! I love owls! I love the Island!”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Wait…” Bokuto’s voice was surprisingly quiet, “You are telling me you inherited  _this_  mansion? And you choose instead to live in a tiny flat with me?”   
   
 “Please do not take it as a compliment to you,” Kuroo said with a grin. “I have only had one good cup of coffee on the Island, the Mainland is my true home.”   
   
 “But it is cold.” Bokuto blinked. “What do they drink if not coffee?”   
   
 “Tea.” Kuroo knocked on the door twice.   
   
 Bokuto tilted his head.   
   
 The door opened after a moment and—   
   
 “S-Ser Kuroo!?”   
   
 “Sugawara!” Kuroo laughed loud. “I come as an inconvenience!”   
   
 Sugawara blinked. Six years had not aged him a moment, and Kuroo realised he had never known how old Suga was. Sugawara laughed and pushed the door open. “Come inside, come inside you both! You are hardly an inconvenience—this is your home!”   
   
 Kuroo stepped inside, as did Bokuto.   
   
 “Have you and your companion travelled from the Mainland?” Sugawara straightened his back. “Ah, have you eaten? I was just to make supper for myself. Shall I set the kettle on? Shall I—”   
   
 “Slow down, friend.” Kuroo grinned. “We would be honoured by any last-minute hospitality you give us. This is my friend, Ser Bokuto, from the Mainland. We have come for the King’s party. I offered him a room here. We will take any accommodations.”   
   
 “Hot water for bathing is a little on short supply,” Sugawara explained, “But everything else is fine. Your room is available, as is the second master bedroom.”   
   
 “Uh.” Bokuto blinked. “How…” He looked behind him, then to Kuroo. “How were there flowers…? All around the building? It is snowing.”   
   
 Kuroo grinned. “We grow many plants despite the snow, friend.” He turned to Sugawara. “Thank you for taking care of my home in these six years, Sugawara. You have done well.”   
   
 “Please, it was your money you sent me.” Sugawara dipped his head. “I have donated most of it, in your name, to various causes, but it was more than enough for me to live comfortably.”   
   
 “A new library I hope?”   
   
 “Two, actually.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Dinner with Sugawara was full of laughs. He and Bokuto got along well, and Kuroo was more than happy to serve the tea while the two chatted away. Sugawara was explaining some Islander things to Bokuto, mostly about the vegetation, and the birds. Sugawara discussed the party and whatnot, asking Kuroo if he wanted to wear his Seltur or his suit. Kuroo considered it, then answered Seltur.   
   
 Sugawara said he would bring it out, as well as needle and thread, see if it needed any changes.   
   
 Bokuto looked at the Seltur with a tilt of his head. “Is that a skirt?”   
   
 Kuroo laughed.   
   
 “Oh.” Sugawara patted a pocket and pulled out an envelope. “A letter for you.” He offered it. “From six years ago.”   
   
 Kuroo took the envelope and frowned. It was open. He took out the letter inside and—   
   
  _To be filled with endless wanting  
 A shock to the very core   
 Realisation slowly dawning—_    
   
 Kuroo’s eyes widened.   
   
  _Take everything of me  
 Take everything of me_    
   
   
 He was hit with a gust of wind, and the room shattered. The floorboards ceased to exist, and he fell into the void, darkness, swarming around him, taking his breath, his words, his mind.   
   
   
 Kenma.   
   
   
 Kuroo heard a sound behind him and glanced to see his chair had fallen over.   
   
 Sugawara repeated, “Kuroo!”   
   
 Kuroo looked at Suga, seeing he was shorter. No. Kuroo was standing now. That was the difference.   
   
 Sugawara stared. “Ser?”   
   
 Bokuto’s eyes widened.   
   
 “Nothing, I just…” Kuroo closed the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. “It was, one of those letters… from back then.”   
   
 Sugawara opened his mouth slightly, nodding. “I see.”   
   
 Bokuto just blinked twice.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 In the morning, Kuroo walked alone along a frozen river. He knew, realistically, if he wanted to hunt rabbit or hare he should have walked the other way. But he needed to see it again. Needed to see the place, where he was challenged to a duel. He needed—   
   
 The hole was covered up, a new layer of ice had formed atop it.   
   
 Kuroo was not entirely surprised, but it was what it was. Still, he pulled the letter out again and read it, eyes softening as he read every word, of a much simpler time.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The party began.   
   
 The finest wines that even Bokuto had to admit were far better than Mainlander ones, music extravagant. Kuroo was an odd one out, wearing a Seltur instead of a suit, but he was also the talk of the night. “Yes, yes, I was born here on the Island,” he told them all, and they wanted to hear every detail, every story. He told them he had few memories, though they were good memories – he enticed them, teased them, but would not tell them.   
   
 There were laughs, all around.   
   
 Kuroo eyed the crowd, looking for Kageyama somewhere.   
   
 Nowhere.   
   
 Kuroo inhaled sharply.   
   
 “Ser Kuroo!”   
   
 Kuroo spun instantly. He bowed. “Your Majesty!”   
   
 Lev offered a hand, and smiled when Kuroo kissed his ring. “My friend!” He grinned brightly. “I knew this would be a hit!”  
   
 Kuroo took a step closer. “Oh?”   
   
 “Well, you see. Poets are artsy people. The Islanders, they are also artsy people. It makes sense, truly.” Lev grinned. “I am rather proud of myself. Yaku’s angry that I am so happy, but I should be allowed to be happy no?”   
   
 Kuroo just laughed. “You are truly something, Your Majesty. May I ask a question?”   
   
 “Of course.”   
   
 “Which one is Vulture?”   
   
 Lev scanned the crowd quickly. “Not here. Are you interested in a meeting?”   
   
 “Yes.”   
   
 “I shall arrange it!”   
   
 Kuroo blinked. “Truly?”   
   
 “The five-time winner, and the six-time winner.” Lev smiled sadly. “Maybe it will be good for you, a breath of fresh air, to talk to someone more… on your level. Yes?”   
   
 Kuroo shrugged. “I cannot say.”   
   
 “Then why do you not wait in one of the adjacent rooms, the library perhaps? And I shall have Vulture meet you there. Ser Suguru and Ser Terushima are very kind to let us use this place for my party. They suggested the library if I needed a more delicate conversation.”   
   
 “Excellent. Quiet, away from the crowd. I am eternally grateful, Your Majesty.”   
   
 Lev waved his hand at that. “Come, come, come, we are friends, Kuroo! This is the least I can do.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo waited and waited in the library. It was an open room, with the bookcases lining the walls. There were chairs around the edges of the room, but the center was empty. Kuroo stood in the centre. He thought of Vulture’s poems, how she filled him with such emotion, bliss… But… He put a hand to his heart, hearing a little crinkle of a letter held in his breast pocket. Kenma’s poem…   
   
 How…   
   
 Opposite, it was.   
   
 Kenma’s poem was of life, of love…   
   
 Vulture wrote of anger, of death…   
   
 Kuroo frowned.   
   
 Facing away from the doors, he looked down at his feet.   
   
 If he had not read Kenma’s poem, he would have been excited to meet this woman. Now, slowly, he began to understand what Bokuto had meant…   
   
 But, still. Vulture!   
   
 Kuroo held his fists up at chest level. “I finally get to meet Vulture!”   
   
 The doors blasted open behind him.   
   
 “Yes,” came a voice, “You finally get to meet me, Kuro.”   
   
 Kuroo spun as wildly as he could—   
   
 Dressed in royal red fur, lined with white that fluffed at the collar, dressed to the highest of class, elegance, wonder—   
   
 Kuroo’s eyes widened. “… Kenma.” 


	7. The Battle of Poets

_To be filled with endless wanting  
A shock to the very core.  
Realisation slowly dawning,  
Acting like a whore.  
   
To have never given into needing,  
An urge that needs to be feeding,  
To give into being mad.  
Acting like a young lad.  
   
To throw away all sanity,  
Take everything of me  
Take everything of me.  
   
To give into humanity,  
Take everything of me  
Take everything of me._  
  

* * *

   
Rhythms & Rhymes  
Chapter 7: The Battle of Poets  
  

* * *

   
 The age of twenty-seven was the last Kenma had heard or seen of Kuroo. He had assumed, realistically, that he would see that name in poems published in collections, written in the digests, on the lists of the awarded, but that simple name seemed to drift away from the pages he was used to seeing them in. He had never thought much of it, figured maybe Kuroo had gone into another writer’s circle. Novelling was quite popular nowadays, after all, but Kenma’s heart never left poetry.   
   
 Scribbles on the pages, he would write, in the margins.   
   
 He longed for it, the feeling, of being taken away by some idea, some ferocious feeling.   
   
 His eyes drifted over the snowy hills outside his window.   
   
 Kenma was not entirely sure how he felt. The frostbite had indeed recovered from his form, other wounds had also sealed and healed. Well, as much as he wanted them to be. Kenma sat at his study, opening his inkwell, and gathering a quill.   
   
 Truthfully, he did not know how he felt.   
   
 He understood, physically, there was tension in his hands and shoulders, his breathing was even, eyebrows drawn into a frown. But he did not think he was upset, nor did he think he was anxious, but he did not know this feeling.   
   
 He decided, then, to write a poem.   
   
 He figured if he could unleash this poem into a void that no one would ever read the damn thing, then perhaps he could unleash his feelings with it and move on with his life.   
   
 And so it became a thing.   
   
 Kenma would often write poems, finishing one a week usually, then letting the ink dry and putting it with the rest, in a small pile by his desk.   
   
 “What’s this?” came one day, from Kageyama, when Kenma was running a comb through his hair.   
   
 Kenma glanced over.   
   
 Kageyama had a single poem in his hand, and read it slowly, mouthing the words as he read it a few times.   
   
 Kenma swallowed hard. He tilted his head ever-so-slightly.   
   
 Kageyama spun to face him. Gasping, “Who wrote this?”   
   
 “I did.”   
   
 Kageyama’s jaw twitched. “When?”   
   
 “I have marked the date.”   
   
 Kageyama glanced to the corner. “That was. That was last night. When?”   
   
 “After you had gone to bed.” Kenma continued to comb his hair. “I was going to ask your opinion of that one eventually.”  
   
 “Truly?”   
   
 “Mm. You have won two King’s Approvals, now. I value your opinion on these things.”   
   
 “Submit this.” Kageyama pushed the paper forward. “Submit this, Kenma. You must!”   
   
 Kenma glanced at him. “Hm… Very well.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 And so Kenma began to submit his poems. He did not want to use his own name – he did not particularly like seeing his name on page, and the thought of others researching him and finding out he was an Islander was an annoying thought. He thought, quietly, of the images he did when he needed to ground himself in reality.   
   
 There were many, but one stood out.   
   
 When Kenma tried to distract his mind, he thought of other things: a squeak of a wheelbarrow, bed sheets being ripped away, a glass shattering—a vulture swooping in for a kill.   
   
 “Vulture.”   
   
 Ah.   
   
 Kenma liked the way it sounded. He signed the poem and mailed it as Kageyama had instructed him.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Kenma!” Kageyama shouted as he burst through the halls, “Kenma!”   
   
 Kenma had been in the serving room, with Hinata, and a guest. Well. If Ser Tooru Oikawa could be considered guest was not up to Kenma, but Saeko ensured they had to treat him as such. Hinata had stood and called out to Kageyama, and the door opened.   
   
 “What is the matter?” Hinata grabbed his arm, eyes wide. “I have not heard you yell like that in years, Tobio.”   
   
 “Forgive me,” Kageyama murmured before moving to Kenma. “Look.” He showed the paper in his hand. “The King’s Approval winners of this season.”   
   
 Kenma saw what Kageyama wanted to see, but a catlike smile formed on his lips. “You have won again, Kageyama.”   
   
 Hinata grinned. “Tobio!”   
   
 Oikawa crossed his legs. “Oh? Came in here to—”   
   
 “Not that!” Kageyama snapped at him, “You won! Your poem! Your first entry was a winner. I have never heard of such a thing – I have no doubt the Mainlanders are scouring every anthology to find a poem by your pen name now. They must all be in a ruckus, a storm!”   
   
 Hinata tilted his head. “Kenma entered a poem…?”   
   
 Oikawa raised an eyebrow.   
   
 Kenma nodded. “Yes. Perhaps, then… I shall do so again.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 For once, Kenma had found a passion, crafting each rhythm, forming each rhyme. He was not sure exactly what the point of all of this was. He knew the money reward and the fame would be wondrous, but he dreaded the day the King would want to meet him. The King had invited Kageyama to the Mainland for a meeting, after his third win, which was apparently customary. Kenma did not think he would win again, but a part of him wanted to.   
   
 The money reward was also helpful. He liked the idea of taking Mainlander money and putting it in the Island.   
   
 Financially, Saeko and Akiteru were doing well enough that Kenma would not need work a day in his life, but truthfully Kenma did not like the idea of such a life.   
   
 Hinata was very quickly taking on many of Akiteru’s duties, managing the craftsmen nearby, and it was clear that he would be the successor.   
   
 Kenma was glad for it, truthfully: He dreaded the thought of taking over the family business simply because he was four months older than Shouyou.   
   
 Kenma sighed.   
   
 Perhaps poetry was what he could drown himself in. He already had, though, for years.   
   
 Kenma walked to his library, a collection of poetry anthologies.   
   
 Kenma had read every book here.   
   
 Kenma knew every book here.   
   
 But who knew Kenma?   
   
 Kenma had seen the world.   
   
 But who saw Kenma?   
   
 Kenma turned away from the library and pulled out his quill. Quickly, he began scribbling rhymes and words, a page of first drafts of garbage that he would look at, for hours, linking sets of rhymes of the same meaning, until he found a start he liked. He already had the theme. He already knew he wanted to write something of anger, something of hatred, something of a person who had nothing to live for. For that alone, Kenma could live, to write that alone.   
   
 And so he wrote, poem after poem, until he was satisfied.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 But the plagues came.   
   
 The plagues had come from infested grain, and the warnings were alarming. Kenma knew, of course, some people could not eat anything but the poisoned grained. He worked with Saeko then, organising funds and asking the nobles to give in this dire time. Some of them were surprised to see him – not his brother, not his brother-in-law, not his mother – but him.   
   
 “I thought you shied from the limelight,” Oikawa teased. “Then again… there was a time everyone’s eyes were on you.”   
   
 Kenma tilted his head. “…When?”   
   
 “When you would dance.”   
   
 Kenma stiffened. “When I would…”   
   
 Kuroo.   
   
 Kenma turned curtly and left. He vaguely heard Oikawa shouting about wanting to give food to the poor, but Kenma kept walking. He got atop his horse, Osamu, and yanked the reins harder than he should. Osamu did not seem to mind, though. Kenma could send Hinata to bother Oikawa later. Now, though, his mind was fixated on a feeling he did not often feel. Rage. He would write, tonight, a poem.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The plagues were hardly the best of times. Kenma found his poems getting darker, and he could not say that he enjoyed it. Still, he saw so much death on a regular basis—carts wheeling away the infected to be burned on the daily—that he needed to put his thoughts somewhere. Hinata had asked him, simply, why he did not write a poem about being thankful, thankful that they were all alive amidst this.   
   
 “Because we might die eventually,” Kenma murmured. “I would hate to look back and see a poem where I am thankful I have my family, when you were already burned to char.”   
   
 Hinata sighed, shaking his head and walking off.   
   
 Hinata, too, had gotten darker in his own way. After Kageyama fell into the frozen water, Kenma knew, their wedding was postponed. The plagues coming soon after meant it was postponed indefinitely.   
   
 Kenma thought nothing of it, to be honest. If they survived this, they would rebuild.   
   
 Hopefully.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Two years after the plagues broke out, and it was gone. What little farmland they had was burned, razed, and gone. It was not a time Kenma remembered eating much. He forfeited most of his food to the servants, and he assumed they knew as much – but with that desperate look in their eyes, they did not dare point it out to him. Kenma remembered a moment in time, when Sugawara came by.   
   
 Sugawara, servant of Kuroo.   
   
 He came with food, vegetables he had grown himself. He asked Kenma to give it to his house staff and to those in need, as Sugawara had no means of transporting so many vegetables to the town market.   
   
 Kenma thanked him, and thanked him again for the donations.   
   
 “It is my master’s money,” Sugawara said simply.   
   
 “But you, too, look like you could eat more.”   
   
 “Ah, caught.” Sugawara laughed. “I have long lived off nothing. Believe me, Ser Kozume, I live off more now than I ever have.”   
   
 Kenma nodded; and, glancing away, he asked, “Any news… from Ser Kuro?”   
   
 “He writes occasionally,” Sugawara admitted, “But he mostly asks about my health and my doings. He is off in the Mainland, still a poet, as ever.”   
   
 “I see.”   
   
 Kenma left it at that. A part of him wanted Kuroo to suffer through the plagues like a true Islander, suffer as he had, but he knew that this was not Kuroo’s home – it had been Kenma who had cast him out, of course. Not entirely, but Kenma knew it had been him who had delivered the final blow.   
   
 Sugawara left with a tactful bow.   
   
 Sugawara had often came and went over the times of the plague—most likely to talk to Daichi. Kenma knew, of course, of their relationship. It was a boat that sailed strong, despite the turbulent times. It gave him a bit of hope, but it was also like waiting for drywood to catch fire… it would only need one spark.   
   
 Kenma hated the part of himself that grew bitter with time… or perhaps it had always been there, and Kenma had just had the luxury of not being aware of how vile some of his thoughts were.   
   
 It was a fair possibility, really.   
   
 Another year passed.   
   
 Kenma celebrated his 30th birthday with friends and family, who asked him playfully if he has had an eye on any Ser lately. Kenma let them have their obviously overdone gossip. He even played along because of his good mood, saying he was having an affair with Iwaizumi as they spoke. Oikawa screamed, and Iwaizumi laughed. Hinata – the only one who still believed him after that – started crying and asking why. Yamaguchi decided that was enough wine for him that night.   
   
 Kenma wanted to laugh that night, his first in forever, but he could not.   
   
 He did, however, smile.   
   
 Smile plenty, and that was an improvement on some level.   
   
 Three more years passed, and he continued to write. He and Kageyama would exchange notes and ideas, while Hinata went abroad with Saeko every now and then for business meetings. Hinata sometimes went alone, and returned with little gifts.   
   
 Kenma’s eyes widened as he was given a notebook bound by a snakeskin cover. There was an image grafted onto the page and he knew. “This is a skull, and a feather?”   
   
 “A vulture’s feather!”   
   
 Kenma frowned. “But—”   
   
 “It’s a gift from papa!” Hinata smiled. “I told him a while ago you wrote under the name Vulture, so he wanted to give you a new book, to write all your new ideas!”   
   
 “Papa.” Kenma sighed. “How I miss Ser Akiteru… He is well?”   
   
 “Very well.” Hinata hugged him tight. “He sends his love.”   
   
 Kenma smiled and closed his eyes. “Next time you see him, give him my thanks and love.”   
   
 “I already did! Since I predicted that was exactly what you would say!”   
   
 Kenma leaned over and kissed his brother’s forehead. “You are perfect, Shouyou.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “So, Little Kenma,” mused the playful voice of Suguru. “Is it true? You hold the world’s record for the finest poems? Something about six times winning some award?”   
   
 Kenma dipped his head in respect. It was a small gathering, a party. It was not big enough to bring out Selturs, but Kenma did wear a black formal vest, and a pair of formal pants. Saeko had asked him to go, and he hated the thought of it. Everyone in his age range who was single was talking to him. Or some, like Daishou Suguru, were taken and wanted to talk to him anyway. “It is true.”   
   
 Terushima soon joined them, glass of wine in his hand. “Ser Kozume—”   
   
 “Not interested,” Kenma said in a sigh.   
   
 “You do not know what I was going to ask.”   
   
 “I know what you are going to ask.” Kenma’s face was neutral, tone monotone. “It is funny, six years ago we had to stop you two from challenging each other to a duel, and now you are asking me to a threesome. Is that your way of saying thank you…?”   
   
 “Ah.” Terushima scoffed a laugh. “Me and my Ser were young and brash back then. We were, you know, passionate.”   
   
 Suguru just purred. “You still are very  _passionate.”_    
   
 “Not interested.” Kenma chugged his wine.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The letter came in two pairs. One addressed to Kageyama, one addressed to Vulture. He took the letters and gave one to Kageyama. “It has the King’s seal.”   
   
   
  _Dear Poet Acclaimed,  
   
 As many of you know, I oft’ host parties for all the fantastic poets who have won my Approval in the past. It fell to my attention, years ago, that I have hosted this party in every part of my wonderful kingdom – all except the Island. Now that the plague has been healed, and trade routes are open, I would like to make a formal visit to the Island, to wish them well. I thought it would be wise to host my party of poets whilst I was there as well. It may be quite the journey North for some, but I am a firm believer in new sights and new sounds are good for the heart and mind.   
   
 By this acclaim, I hereby formally invite you and yours to join me in the Suguru Manor on the eve of the next month, for we shall dine on foods wondrous and exchange many tales. I surely hope you shall be there.   
   
 With respect,   
 -His Royal Majesty, Lyovochka Fyodorovich Elizaveta Konstantin av Haiba_    
   
   
 Kageyama looked at him.   
   
 He looked at Kageyama.   
   
 “Well.” Kageyama smiled awkwardly. “We better get our Selturs out…”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kenma arrived to the party with Kageyama, face red, hands sweating. He had never revealed his face to any of these poets. “I am a fake,” he whispered to Kageyama. “I am pretending to be a vulture when I have just been a little bird, staying in my cage…”   
   
 “They are all poets,” Kageyama reminded him, “They are all as awkward as you are. Some are worse.”   
   
 Kenma glanced at him, eyes growing wide. “Truthfully…?”   
   
 “Indeed.”   
   
 But they did not take many steps into the palace before Kageyama grabbed Kenma and yanked him away. “That swine! Kuroo is here.”   
   
 “Kuroo,” Kenma says with so much feeling that it comes out a flat line. “Kuro is here?”   
   
 “I am leaving!”   
   
 “Kageyama—”   
   
 “I am leaving now! And I—”   
   
 “Ser Kageyama,” came a voice that made him freeze.   
   
 Kageyama spun and dropped to a knee. “Your Majesty!”   
   
 Kenma did the same. He looked down, not daring making eye contact with the  _King._    
   
 “Call me Lev,” he said with a big smile, “And do not kneel, please. I am a casual fellow, you know this Ser Kageyama. Who is this? Your date? You are engaged, yes?”   
   
 “He is—” Kageyama stood up. “He is my mate’s brother, actually.”   
   
 “Oh.” Lev blinked, then winked. “I will not tell.”   
   
 “N-No!” Kageyama sputtered. “This is—”   
   
 “Vulture.” Lev offered his hand. “Yes?”   
   
 Kenma took it and kissed the ring softly. “Yes.”   
   
 “Ser Kuroo has requested you in Suguru’s library. Will you see him?”   
   
 Kenma thought it over, taking a deep breath. “I suppose…”   
   
 “Well,” Kageyama scoffed. “I for one am leaving.”   
   
 “Ah.” Lev pouted. “You do not get along with Ser Kuroo? I thought you and he were friends, once upon a time.”   
   
 “Once upon a time indeed,” Kageyama retorted harshly. His eyes widened. “Your Majesty, I m-mean—”   
   
 Lev waved it away. “Well, Vulture will go speak to Kuroo, so you do not have to worry about him. You told me you wanted to meet Lady Kiyoko Shimizu, yes? Or. Ser Kiyoko Shimizu. That is how you Islanders say it, yes?”   
   
 “Yes,” Kageyama whispered. He frowned, eyebrows drawn tight together. “Perhaps I could have one conversation with Ser Shimizu…”   
   
 “Go,” Kenma told him. “And I will go see Kuroo…”   
   
 Lev grinned. “Wonderful!”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kenma took a deep breath, steadying his heart rate. His hands were shaking, his mind wandering to hypothetical destructions, but he focused on his breathing, focused on that screaming sound, the caw of a vulture, swooping in for a kill. Kenma stepped towards the large double doors of Ser Suguru’s library and placed a hand on the door. He wanted to open it, but his hands were still shaking.   
   
 He almost wished there was someone else around, someone watching him.   
   
 That always motivated him to stop hesitating and to just do what he needed.   
   
 He brought his other hand up to the door and closed his eyes. Kenma spoke to himself quietly, “You must simply speak to him, it does not matter what he says, you—”   
   
 Kuroo’s voice boomed from the other side, “I finally get to meet Vulture!”   
   
 Fool.   
   
 Kenma blasted the doors open.   
   
 “Yes,” Kenma said with a scoff. “You finally get to meet me, Kuro.”   
   
 Kuroo spun as wildly as he could. His eyes widened. “… Kenma.”   
   
 Kenma stepped into the library. The doors closed behind him but he did not care. He was more fixated on Kuroo’s clothes – how he wore his old Selturs, with the golden yellow hoops that Kenma had gifted him. Beneath Kenma’s royal red coat, he wore the same, with his black sashes. He pulled down his cloak to reveal them and tossed the red fur coat upon a chair some distance away.   
   
 Kuroo’s eyes were still wide, mouth hanging ajar.   
   
 “Kuro, Kuro, Kuroo…” Kenma tried not to sound too exasperated, but he had no doubt he failed. He crossed his arms and huffed. “Look at you, Kuro… passionate, yelling, like a child who thinks no one can see him dance…”   
   
 Kuroo stuttered, face heating red. “I, uh…” He took a step forward. “I see you…”   
   
 “Yes.” Kenma ran a hand through his hair. “It has been six years, Kuro, but I see you again. Your eyes are ever the same… It reminds me of then, when I was younger, passionate. When I believed in follies.”   
   
 “Kenma, I—”   
   
 “Six years,” Kenma cut him off. “I… will warn you that it has been six long years since I have last seen you. Choose your words well for, with the company in the grand hall, I have no reason to stay and speak with you here.”   
   
 “You…” Kuroo’s eyes softened. “You are Vulture…”   
   
 “Indeed, I am.”   
   
 “Kenma, I…” Kuroo straightened his back. “Ser Kenma—”   
   
 “Kenma,” he corrected. “Just Kenma.”   
   
 “Then Kuro.” Kuroo smiled wide. “Just Kuro.”   
   
 Kenma’s lips tugged upwards a little, but he shook his head. “I would have hoped you would have had more to say to me than just an old exchange from a time too long ago to matter.”   
   
 “Too long ago to matter?” Kuroo frowned. “Kenma, listen… In six years—no, ten! More! Longer! In… in ten years… only two people have lit a fire in my heart. And to think—to think that these two are one in the same! You are Vulture! I see it now… The sharpness of your rhymes, the bluntness of your words… the edge of your wit… only you. It could have only been you.”   
   
 Kenma’s forehead creased with frowns. “Kuro.”   
   
 “Please.” Kuroo’s body seemed to lift with passion, and the floorboards began to move beneath him. The ceiling moved towards the heavens. “This heart beats for old times. Kenma, my beloved, forgive those olden crimes?”   
   
 “Enough, Kuro!” Kenma snapped, locking the floorboards into place. “Those days are gone – no one is romance’s pawn. It is over! Enough!”   
   
 “Kenma!” Kuroo moved towards him.   
   
 “Enough,  _enough.”_  Kenma’s eyes burned and he slammed a foot down. Cracks lined the floor, breaking it open, stopping Kuroo in his tracks. “Your relentlessness has no shame! Do you not remember, Kuro? In those gardens… I poured my heart out to you—I bore myself to you, was willing to whore myself to you.” Kenma stepped forward. “But you needed to find yourself… to whine about yourself… The world revolved singularly around you. And. Look!” The floor cracked open and red hot mist jutted out. “It still does!”   
   
 Kuroo held his arms in front of his face as a blast of wind hit him.   
   
 “But.” Kenma relaxed his shoulder. “I will give you one thanks, and one alone…”   
   
 Kuroo lowered his arms, the ground around him stabilising.   
   
 “I threw myself at you, Kuro. I would have begged for you to have your way with me, to use me, but you rejected my foolish desires.”   
   
 “Listen!” Kuroo scoffed. “Foolish, selfish, and mad as you may think I am—I would have never abused your passion for my own gain!”   
   
 “Then why do you desire me now?” Kenma spread his arms like a bird in flight and  _stomped.  
   
 A thunderclap._    
   
 “Could it be, Kuro, because I am society? I have shattered your record of five? My poems burn anger, bright, in everyone. I am all you longed to be. Loved or hated, it does not matter – my poems are known by all, I am known by all… That is all the interest you have in me now!”   
   
 “Please!” Kuroo shook his head. “I am not so callous as that!”   
   
 The ceiling expanded skyward.   
   
 “Why then, Kuro? Why is your romance for me revived so? Could it be…?” Kenma tilted his head ever so slightly. “…because you have fallen?”   
   
 Kuroo froze. “Fallen?”   
   
 “How many poems of yours have been rejected?” Kenma stepped forward. “Is that not what this is? Did you not simply seek me for inspiration…?”   
   
 “Kenma, listen, I could care less about your awards—”   
   
 “And how many awards have you won, lately?”   
   
 Kuroo sputtered.   
   
 “Ah! Kitten’s at a loss for words!?” Kenma  _barked,_  “Cat got your tongue, Kuro?”   
   
 Kuroo’s eyes widened.   
   
 The floor shattered, as did the room around them, all becoming tiny shards that moved to the nothingness above.   
   
 Kenma did not mind the darkness that replaced their existence, he merely shook his head. “I have lived through hell, Kuro… The plagues took so many things from me… This is not the time in my life for fancies and romances, not the time for the past I cannot have, not the time for your pathetic words.” His eyes lifted to meet Kuroo’s. “Even if I followed you to the ends of the world, it will be the same… Even now, you will tell me you need to discover yourself… will you not? Now, will you realise you are far more lost than ever?”   
   
 Kuroo stepped back into the darkness.   
   
 “Look at you. In six years, you look as though you have aged a decade and a half.” Kenma raised his chin. “I know I am the same, perhaps worse, but I know who I am. I have my calling, my passion. My poems. You are nothing, no one… Your folly, I want none of it. I want nothing of it, and I want nothing of you ever again.”   
   
 “Kenma, please…” Kuroo put his hand to his heart. “Listen to what I have to say.”   
   
 “Then you,” Kenma replied evenly, “Must listen to what I have to say.”   
   
 “This heart beats for old times, Kenma—”   
   
 “Kuroo, those days are gone.”   
   
 “Forgive those olden crimes?”   
   
 “No one is romance’s pawn.”   
   
 “No.” Kuroo shook his head. “You are not a pawn. You are nothing of a pawn… You are strong. You rose above what would have crushed me. My beloved… Kenma…” He offered his hand. “Kitten, you were always more than you appeared. I saw it… I saw it in you, years ago… You call yourself a vulture, I may have called you a cat, but what does it matter? You are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you will rise above this all.”   
   
 Kenma took a step back, feeling something crunch in his chest.   
   
 “One dance, Kenma.” Kuroo stepped forward, and chips of wood came together to form floorboards. “Kenma…” He continued to walk, and the floorboards returned under his feet.   
   
 Kenma took an even breath. “Why, why are you so drawn to me?” He stepped forward, and the wood created long slaps that connected them in the dark.  _Why,_ Kenma wondered, _Why am I so drawn to you?_    
   
 Kuroo placed a hand on Kenma’s hip; and, in his other hand, their fingers intertwined.   
   
 Kenma was not sure why he let his hand rest on Kuroo’s shoulder. A part of him wanted to yell, to scream, for how dare Kuroo choose to lead the dance. No. No one would lead him astray ever again. And, yet… this was how they had danced at first. Their legs moved, a slow waltz, their first dance, returning to the present.   
   
 “Kenma,” Kuroo spoke quietly in his ear. “This heart beats for old times…”   
   
 “Those days,” Kenma returned evenly, “Are gone.”   
   
 “Forgive my olden crimes…”   
   
 “No one, Kuro, is romance’s pawn.”   
   
 “Kenma.” Kuroo whispered.   
   
 “Kuro.”   
  

_This hearts beats for old times.  
Those days are gone.  
Forgive those olden crimes?  
No one is romance’s pawn.  
   
Was it not to be everlasting?  
These two lives are contrasting.  
Must it be a clash between foe?  
It as if this is death’s row.  
   
The land is rubble and breaking  
The lowest of every low  
A waste, a theatrical show  
   
The softest mornings now aching  
Humiliated to the core,  
What was it all for?_  
  

 Kenma pulled away, the floorboards breaking them apart and forming along the path he walked, away from Kuroo, away from it all. He shook his head.   
   
 Kuroo closed his eyes. “I failed you, I failed everyone!” He opened his eyes again and crossed the distance. “But another chance, another dance, Kenma, I—”   
   
 Kenma spun and stretched a hand out, pressing a hand to Kuroo’s chest, keeping Kuroo away from him. “Enough! I never felt anything for you then but unhindered lust. That was all it was…”   
   
 Kuroo took a step back. “That is not true—”   
   
 “It is!” Kenma threw his head back and willed blocks of ice to form, shooting skyward, like fortress walls around him. “I never felt anything for you!”   
   
 “Kenma!” Kuroo scowled. He swept his arms and cannons formed at his side. “I have proof that you did!”   
   
 “You lie! As you always have!”   
   
 Kuroo reached in his pocket, pulling out a blue envelope. “All I ask is for you to listen!”   
   
 The ice grew and expanded, shooting into layers all around Kenma. “I am tired of listening to you!”   
   
 “Then listen to your own words!”   
   
 “Enough!” Kenma sealed himself in a fortress, an impenetrable fortress, and he shut Kuroo out. “Enough!”   
   
 The cannons readied their aim and Kuroo shouted above the cannon fire, “To throw away all sanity! Take everything of me, take everything of me!”   
   
 Kenma’s eyes widened.   
   
 The fortress shattered around him, cannonballs raining fire and chaos.   
   
 “To give into humanity, take everything of me—”   
   
 “This…” Kenma whispered, “This was…”   
   
 Fire and ice continued to fall like stars around him.   
   
 “Take everything of me!”   
   
 A second volley of cannon fire—   
   
 The fortress was gone, and Kenma lay in the open. He put a hand to his heart. He lay in the open.   
   
 Exposed.   
   
 “Kenma,” Kuroo said in a wet voice, holding a simple blue envelope. “Take everything of me…”   
   
 Kenma’s eyes widened.   
   
 “We have done wrongs, yes… I have done wrongs… but I know we had something then.” Kuroo stepped closer. “We rode horses, had walks in town, breakfasts in glades, dances… Kenma, listen. You told me I was the first one that you allowed yourself to truly feel for, the first you let you be you… But you never asked of me.”   
   
 Kenma looked at him, eyes wide and shining.   
   
 “You never let me play my games, you stumped me, your sharp words caught me off guard…” Kuroo cupped his face. “It was the only time in my life where I felt like I was myself, where I felt I was not pretending. I could not pretend around you, I could not be anyone but me… and it scared me, Kenma. It scared me… But if we can just think back, to before this all went wrong…”   
   
 “Oh Kuro.” Kenma closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “But my life… has changed since then… I cannot simply—”   
   
 “A single chance. A single, foolish chance,” Kuroo begged. “I now pour my heart out to you—I bare myself to you, willing to give everything of myself to you if I must…”   
   
 Kenma felt a fire burn deep in his chest. “Please, Kuro…”   
   
 “Take everything of me,” Kuroo begged.   
   
 “To have never given into needing, an urge that needs to be feeding,” Kenma recited, “To give into being mad… acting like a young lad… To throw away all sanity…”   
   
 “Take everything of me, take everything of me…”   
   
 Kenma knew Kuroo was leaning in, for a kiss. “To throw away all to give into humanity.”   
   
 Kuroo leaned in, whispering upon Kenma’s lips, “Take everything of me, take everything—”   
   
 Kenma clasped his wrist. He shook his head. Squeak of a wheelbarrow. Sheets being ripped away. Glass shattering—Vulture swooping in for a kill. “No,” he whispered. He broke away. “Have some control, Kenma.” He lowered his head. “Do not lose yourself to some fantasy…”   
   
 Kenma took several more steps, back to Kuroo.   
   
 The room stilled.   
   
 Kenma looked down, and shut his eyes.   
   
 The library was an open room, with the bookcases lining the walls. There were chairs around the edges of the room, but the center was empty. Kuroo and Kenma stood, paces apart, in the centre.   
   
 Kenma stiffened. He looked over his shoulder to Kuroo.   
   
 Ah, how Kuroo’s eyes held such light.   
   
 But Kenma narrowed his eyes and shook his head.   
   
 Ah, how the light was snuffed out.   
   
 “I cannot have the past.” Kenma looked upwards. “I must face forward. Goodbye, Kuro.” He turned, then, and walked past Kuroo towards the double doors.   
   
 “Kenma—”   
   
 Kenma knew it was over. No doubt, Kuroo did too. And, yet… Kenma spun around, sharp words dancing on the tip of his tongue.   
   
 But.   
   
 Kuroo was not trying to stop him.   
   
 No.   
   
 Kuroo simply held out the blue envelope.   
   
 Kenma reached for it, but paused. “I should not…”   
   
 “It was your first poem,” Kuroo whispered. “I have no right to hold it.”   
   
 That damn haunted letter. Kenma snatched it. He had never expected it to return to him, six years later; and, yet, he knew he could not destroy it. He grabbed his red fur-lined coat and turned towards the door.   
   
 A part of him wanted Kuroo to call out to him, ask him to stay.   
   
 But all Kuroo said was, “Goodbye, Ser Kenma.”   
   
 Kenma pushed open one of the double doors and muttered, “Goodbye, Ser Kuro.” 


	8. Sunfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So~ this chapter marks the fic at Chapter 8/10, but just to let you know -- Chapter 9 is going to be the last chapter of this fic. 10 will be something, extra? Different? It'll make sense in context. Wanted to say thanks again for the support so far
> 
> * * *

_The man and that cat danced away  
He impressed with his skills of his craft,  
His many achievements on display–  
But to the cat, it was just a draft.  
    
The cat saw what was truly underneath  
For the man’s smile was false teeth.  
The cat saw the pathetic loneliness grow  
As if the man was on death’s row.  
    
But the cat had compassion  
For he too once lost it all  
In the burning fiery fall.  
  
The cat lost much in ashen,  
So his heart wanted to know it  
Whatever it was that haunted this poet._  
  

* * *

    
Rhythms & Rhymes  
Chapter 8: Sunfire  
  

* * *

    
 Kenma’s footsteps were trudging and tiring, each one creating a new ache, a new pain. Suguru’s home was not far from his own, and so – when the sun was high – Kageyama and Kenma had decided to a leisurely walk. Now, in the dark of the night, Kenma walked home alone.    
    
 He of course vaguely recalled he had left Kageyama behind.    
    
 But it was no matter.    
    
 He continued to walk, clutching the blue envelope in his hands. How he hated the cursed, wretched, haunted thing… and, yet… And, yet, Kenma could recall each and every word as though he had written it moments ago. Kenma could recall each and every feeling, as if he had lived that life just a moment ago.    
    
 And, a part of him had.    
    
 Bored by the long, quiet walk, he pulled the letter out of the envelope. He held the envelope between his pointer and middle finger, on his right hand, and grabbed the letter with both hands. He stretched it out, reading each line, each passage, and he swore the world would move if he told it to.    
    
 “What madness,” Kenma murmured alas. He slipped the letter back in the envelope. A part of him wanted to shove it in the snow, toss it into the winds… yet he opened the vest of his Seltur and slipped it in the small pocket. “Madness…”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kenma took a cautious breath as he opened the door to his home. He heard his name being called and Hinata was walking towards him, asking some question or other. Probably about Kageyama. When Hinata pulled away his coats, Kenma did not fight him. Hinata took his hand, though, and that tugged Kenma’s attention.    
    
 “Shall I get a change of clothes for you?”    
    
 Kenma sighed. “No. Yes. Maybe. Perhaps…”    
    
 Hinata’s eyes softened.    
    
 Only then did Kenma note how tired those eyes looked, how lifeless that dull orange hair was. Kenma wondered, quietly, how long Hinata had looked like the walking dead he was. It was no secret Kageyama and he made love no longer, not even small kisses, or holding of hands. Kenma sighed, pulling Hinata’s hand up and kissing it.    
    
 Hinata blinked, tilting his head. “What is it, Kenma? What happened at the party…?”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kenma did indeed get a change of clothes. He stripped himself of his Seltur and wore a comfortable pair of pants and a white linen shirt. He did, however, take the envelope out of his Seltur and hand it carefully to Hinata. Hinata, having no idea what it was, must have understood its importance.    
    
 “It looks worn,” Hinata commented quietly. He took the letter with two hands then turned. He walked to the side of Kenma’s bed and took a seat. Slowly, he unfolded it and laughed. “Oh, of course! A poem.” He closed his eyes as he laughed, opening them again. “I should have expected that.”    
    
 Kenma offered a small smile. He grabbed one of the plush red chairs by his desk and brought it over to face Hinata. “Read it.”    
    
 Hinata did.    
    
 Kenma watched.    
    
 Hinata mouthed each word as he read the poem again, slower this time. His eyes lit up and he smiled bright. “Kenma…”    
    
 Kenma stiffened. “Yes?”    
    
 “I… love it.” Hinata looked at him. “You wrote this when?”    
    
 Kenma glanced away. “Funny…” He rubbed his jaw. “I remember you seemed to hate my poems…”    
    
 “Because they never make anyone smile.”    
    
 Kenma blinked, looking at him.    
    
 “Both you and Kageyama…” Hinata smiled, though his eyes were shaking with tears. “Winning awards left and right… but it is all, just. Chaos. You are putting garbage out there in the world… It is all… despair, and hatred, and anger… sadness… What is it all for, Kenma?”    
    
 Kenma opened his mouth—    
    
 “You told me, once.” Hinata leaned in. “That people want to cry, to feel, to release emotion… a form of catharsis. Because tears… they clean the eyes, you know? They wash all that stuff away… dirt and feelings… but when you write your poems today… They are not like this!” He held the page up, grinning. “This has the world! And you could make a grievous second half, of someone who lost it all because the other person did take it all… but that would only be a good story if it meant something… right?”    
    
 Kenma frowned. “You talk as if it is simple and easy to craft these rhymes, these feelings.”    
    
 “Feelings are simple!” Hinata pouted. “That is why a play or a poem can make an audience cry… we already know what sadness is, Kenma. We already know what anger is… to feel it is human, but to feel it for something… something that matters, something that captivates you! That has purpose… that has wonder… Your poems of today are just, empty dread. They serve no purpose.”    
    
 Kenma scowled.    
    
 “Kageyama, I…” Hinata closed his eyes. “I used to be in love with his poetry… but I feel nothing when I read his works now.”    
    
 “Enough.” Kenma squished his eyes closed. “Again, that is all very easy for you to say…” He glared at his brother. “Have you ever tried to write a poem, Shouyou?”    
    
  _“Oh?”_  Kuroo’s voice came to mind,  _“Have you ever written a poem?”_     
    
 Slowly, Kenma’s eyes widened.    
    
  _“Ah, but… you did not answer my question,”_  Kuroo’s voice went on,  _“I did not ask if you were published, I merely asked if you have written a poem. If you have read every single one of my poems, as you say you have, then surely you must have tried it yourself at some point.”_     
    
 Hinata glanced away nervously.    
    
  _“Even if it was just scribbles on the side of a page, no?”_     
    
 Kenma leaned back slowly. “You have.”    
    
 Hinata scoffed a little laugh, shaking his shoulders. “Listen! Those were… from olden days!” He slipped the letter back in the envelope and shook his head. “From days older than this, I would assume.”    
    
 “Where?” Kenma asked, “Where is it…?”    
    
 “It was in one of my journals, from yeeeaaaaars ago.” Hinata shrugged. “We could check the archives, but…”    
    
 Kenma nodded slowly. “Let us go. Now.”    
    
 “Wait—”    
    
 “Now.”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kenma stormed through the halls, going down the archway stairs just as the front door opened. At that moment, Hinata switched from persuading Kenma not to check the archives to running to the person who had just come home.    
    
 “Tobio!” Hinata tugged off his coat. “You have come home, Darling. A cup of tea?”    
    
 “No, not now.” Kageyama eased his coat off himself. “I thought of a poem.”    
    
 Hinata blinked. “About what?”    
    
 “Duplicity. Anger. Treachery. Knife rhymes with strife and life, and I could do something on the last two stanzas…” Kageyama slipped out of his vest and tugged at his collar. “That damn Kuroo is back, the betrayer.” He stormed away, to his study, each step quicker than the one before it.    
    
 “Kuroo…” Hinata, still holding Kageyama’s coat, whispered. “He held on to it…? His anger…. All this time?”    
    
 Kenma glanced away.    
    
 Hinata’s eyes softened. “He held on to it… for what?”    
    
 Kenma lowered his head.    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Hinata marched into the archives with quick steps. The archives was just a small room off the side of the library, where they kept old books, memoirs and whatnot their family had left behind. Saeko had always encouraged the three of them to write journals, and to keep them here. Though Hinata’s steps held something akin to anger, he could not help but laugh as soon as he walked in the room.    
    
 Kenma blinked.    
    
 “The last time I was in here…” Hinata spun around. “It was when I was a young ser. I decided to read all of Tobio’s old journals, try to find something embarrassing from his even earlier years.”    
    
 Kenma tilted his head. “What did you find?”    
    
 “All the things he said about me.” Hinata beamed. “How he adored me. Had feelings for me…”    
    
 Kenma’s lips tugged upwards. “I… vaguely remember one day, you came charging in to the dinner table telling Tobio you loved him too, and kissed him in front of our guests.”    
    
 “Ah! Yeah! That was like… thirty seconds after I read his journals!”    
    
 Kenma scoffed. “Shouyou…”    
    
 “It worked out! Well.” Hinata’s smile faded. “Not really…”    
    
 Kenma’s expression also softened.    
    
 Hinata turned away. “We had so much…” He pulled the books from the shelves, the ones with his name inscribed. “Tobio and I…”    
    
 “If Kuroo had not accepted that duel—”    
    
 “The duel—” Hinata glanced over his shoulder. “What does it matter, Kenma? It was not the river that froze Kageyama’s heart. It was not the plagues!” He turned back to the bookshelf and pulled two more journals. “Kageyama chose to freeze his own heart.”    
    
 Kenma opened his mouth to reply, but he snapped his jaw shut.    
    
 “Maybe that is what he needed for his poetry…” Hinata sighed as he flipped through the pages. “But it was not what I needed from him.”    
    
 Kenma said nothing.    
    
 Hinata flipped the pages, humming thoughtfully. “Here!” He showed Kenma. “Here!”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kageyama’s study was a blessing. Saeko had gifted him her study years ago, as it was a distance from all the noise in the house. She, instead, took the one upstairs. Kageyama’s study was close enough to the kitchen that he could make himself a cup of tea if he needed to, but far enough that he was given the privacy. It was a circular room, with two big doors. He was thankful for it.    
    
 He dipped his quill in ink and began writing rhymes, but.    
    
 No.    
    
 Disconnected.    
    
 Disjointed.    
    
 Kageyama crushed the paper in his hand and scowled. He got fresh ink on his palm. He wiped it off with another piece of paper and then tried again.    
    
 The doors opened, carefully.    
    
 Kageyama did not look up from his page. “What is it?”    
    
 “Ah… Tobio… you used to smile when you made poems.”    
    
 Kageyama glanced upwards. “Well, once you understand there is no art. Just formula. The craft loses its luster.”    
    
 “Ah.” Hinata stepped in the study, closing the door behind him. He leaned back against the doors and closed his eyes. “As have I, to you.”    
    
 Kageyama’s hand stilled, blue piercing eyes waiting for Hinata to open his.    
    
 And Hinata did.    
    
 Kageyama swallowed hard. He had almost forgotten how much light Hinata’s eyes held.    
    
 “Do you remember, Kageyama?” Hinata grinned. “The first time you won the King’s Approval? How happy you were? How happy I was, for you…? It was a poem… about me.” He rubbed his nose, still grinning. “About your Sunfire.”    
    
 “Sun—” Kageyama recoiled. His jaw twitched and he sputtered something. His cheeks burned. “What. What a foolish nickname I gave you…”    
    
 “Sunfire.” Hinata walked around the desk and, carefully, pushed Kageyama’s stack of paper away. He sat on the desk. “You have not called me that in six years, Tobio.”    
    
 “I…” Kageyama’s eyes lost focus. “I forgot…” He lowered his head. “So busy crafting my poems… and you were overseeing the mines… the plagues…”    
    
 “Tobio… call me it one more time, please?”    
    
 Kageyama looked up. “Sunfire.”    
    
 Hinata’s smile lit up the room.    
    
 No, Kageyama was sure, the world. He felt his heart rise to his throat and he found his own lips mirroring the foolish look on Hinata’s face. “That was a long time ago… We had so much love between us.”    
    
 “Yes.” Hinata nodded. “But it is gone and dead now.”    
    
 Kageyama’s smile faltered.    
    
 “He writes with quill in hand,” Hinata said quietly, “He scribes poems to win my affection. But, if he saw the secrets of the land…”    
    
 Kageyama frowned. “Shouyou—”    
    
 “But!” Hinata repeated, louder, “If he saw the secrets of the land—”    
    
 “Hinata.”    
    
 “—My feelings are just a reflection,” he whispered. “He tells me I am like a fire—”    
    
 “You.” Kageyama frowned. “You are reciting a poem. A poorly written one.”    
    
 “Y-Yes.” Hinata glared. “I am, Tobio. Now shut up and listen.”    
    
 Kageyama sat back in his chair. “Fine.”    
    
 “From the top.” Hinata cleared his throat. “He writes with quill in hand—”    
    
 “What poem is this?” Kageyama leaned forward. “I did not write this.”    
    
 “Ser Tobio Kageyama.”    
    
 Kageyama shut his mouth and made a muffled grunting noise. He slammed himself back in his chair.    
    
 “He writes with quill in hand,” Hinata said softly, “He scribes poems to win my affection. But if he saw the secrets of the land, my feelings are ever a reflection.”    
    
 Kageyama frowned.    
    
 “He tells me I am like a fire, and fear I do of him I tire. His string of words are like rivers… and mine are as lovely as livers.”    
    
 “Clearly.”    
    
 “He! Talks!” Hinata barked out, before his voice became melodic again, “As if I embody serenity… Though my hair colour may be rare, I am just an unpoetic Ser.”    
    
 Kageyama said nothing.    
    
 “He talks as if I am a perfect identity. As if I am a gift, a dove… But I can only give love.”    
    
 Kageyama looked up, eyes meeting.    
    
 Hinata pursed his lips tight.    
    
 “You wrote this.”    
    
 “Yes.”    
    
 “When?”    
    
 “Perhaps a decade ago,” Hinata said in a laugh. “Perhaps more.”    
    
 Kageyama frowned, but not of anger… confusion. “Shouyou…”    
    
 “Tobio, I never had the courage to tell you… but I wanted to write something for you, something special. Was it a good poem?”    
    
 “May I… be honest?”    
    
 “Er. No?”    
    
 “It was horrid.”    
    
 Hinata barked a laugh.    
    
 Kageyama grinned. “You completely ruined the rhyme scheme.”    
    
 “What?” Hinata frowned. “No I did not! It followed the same rhyme scheme as yours!”    
    
 “But you…” Kageyama took a breath. “You switched the masculine rhymes and the feminine rhymes.”    
    
 “Since when do rhymes have genitalia?”    
    
 “That!” Kageyama squished his eyes. “That is not the point, Shouyou!”    
    
 “And who says – even if the rhymes had genitalia – that their genitals should determine whether they are man or woman?”    
    
 “Hinata!”    
    
 “And!” Hinata raised a finger. “What if a rhyme did not want to be a man or a woman? They should be free to express themselves outside such a binary of—”    
    
 “Ser Shouyou Hinata!” Kageyama stood up from his chair and slammed his hands on the desks, having Hinata between them, and their faces close together.    
    
 Hinata stayed quiet.    
    
 “It is a Mainland construct. A simple way to classify rhymes and rhyme effects. Masculine rhymes are like Gregg and egg—”    
    
 “Who is Ser Greg?”    
    
 “Shouyou!” Kageyama sighed, with a laugh, into Hinata’s neck.    
    
 Hinata giggled.    
    
 “Ser Shouyou,” Kageyama whispered, “I do most formally hate you.”    
    
 Hinata laughed, loud. “And I, you, love.” He kissed Kageyama softly.    
    
 Kageyama swore his heart could fly. He shut his eyes, and let himself drown in that kiss.    
    
 Hinata pulled away. “Okay, okay, so Mainlanders like to make everything a dichotomy or of some such? Tell me.”    
    
 “No, you will spout your garbage.”    
    
 “No!” Hinata tugged him. “Tell me, Tobio. I will be good.” He suddenly smirked. “I will be a good student, Ser Kageyama…”    
    
 Kageyama’s cheeks flushed red.    
    
 “That is a game we have not played in many a years…”    
    
 Kageyama shivered. “Rhymes! Rhymes! Masculine rhymes… they are short and curt. Usually a single syllable. Like crust and dust. They are a forceful ending to a sentence. Feminine rhymes tend to flow, and are longer. Such as shower and flower. They match in more than one syllable, usually, and it gives the rhyme a very different effect.”    
    
 “I see.” Hinata preened. “I did that!”    
    
 “Yes, but. You put masculine rhymes where there should have been feminine rhymes—”    
    
 “Then reverse it!” Hinata crossed his arms. “Who are we to play the games of Mainlanders? We can change things up too!”    
    
 Kageyama’s mouth shut sharply.    
    
 Hinata blinked. “Tobio?”    
    
 “Reverse the rhyme scheme,” he whispered. “Of course! Why did I not think of that?”    
    
 “Because!” Hinata punched his right shoulder, eliciting a sharp noise. “You have dried up like the parents who abandoned you.”    
    
 Kageyama stepped back. “Shouyou!”    
    
 “No!” Hinata jumped off the desk and looked up at Kageyama. “You used to recite of love and life, of loss, sadness, passion, happiness. You never cared, Kageyama – you never cared for  _hell_  if it won you an award or not. Yes, you had your pressures from the family, but your anger, Kageyama… it was a flair, a beacon of light, it was passionate. It held heat. I fell in love with that heat… not. Not this.”    
    
 Kageyama stepped back.    
    
 “You have grown cold, cold and sharp… and your anger does not seek to inspire feeling, it simply seeks to kill.” Hinata shook his head. “It… I cannot find words, I am no poet, I just…” He squished his eyes shut. “Dance with me, Tobio.”    
    
 Kageyama’s hand clenched. “I cannot—”    
    
 “You have never denied me a dance in private,” Hinata said evenly. “Dance with me.”    
    
 “Shouyou.”    
    
 “I know you do not dance in public, but in private—”    
    
 “No, Shouyou.”    
    
 He pulled Kageyama down, so their faces were closer. “Dance with me, Tobio… I want to fall in love again, I want to fall for you again… I forgot. I completely forgot… but we have these poems, these little writings, to remind us of where we have been and what we were. Yes, we have grown, yes we have improved… but we lost good things along the way as well. Reclaiming those is as important as growing more.”    
    
 Kageyama’s eyes widened. “Shouyou…”    
    
 “Do you remember?” Hinata looked up. “Do you remember our promise, when I revealed the rings and proposed to you?”    
    
 “You would never deny me my poems,” Kageyama whispered, “And I would never deny you a dance.”    
    
    
 ~ ~ ~    
    
    
 Kenma was still reading old journals when he heard it. From across the mansion, from across the floors and tiles—    
    
  _A thunderclap._     
    
 Kenma raised his head. “They… dance?”    
    
  _A thunderclap._     
    
 Kenma pushed the books out of the way and stepped out of the archives. He walked to the library, where they had a wide array of poem anthologies. Kenma read the labels and the names, until he picked up a singular piece.    
    
 Kuroo’s voice whispered, from ages, past,  _“And do you have a favourite of my poems?”_     
    
 Kenma whispered, “Shallow Rocks.”    
    
 He flipped the pages.    
    
  _“You did not like that I said Shallow Rocks.”  
    
 “No… I, uh… Hah, I… wrote that in my youth. I thought it was brilliant, the most brilliant thing I had ever written… The others called it foolhardy, brash. An adolescent’s take on life.”    
    
 “It had energy… It was about hope, I think. About someone who had hope, in a world that tried to take it from him… but they found it again. That is how I saw it, anyway.”_    
    
 Kenma read these poems, Kuroo’s first poems, simple poems… before the world was complicated. 


	9. What It Was All For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is~ the last chapter, the ending. Thank you again for all the support. <3
> 
> * * *

_In a frosty littletown of differences  
Was the birth of a man.  
Of a mixed life, upbringings, and preferences.  
For he left his clan.  
   
Gone to live in kingdoms  
Losing his many freedoms  
But at thirty – there was a death  
His uncle exhaled his last breath  
   
The man inherited fortunes  
Of a land he did not know  
And to this place he had to go.  
  
That is how he met the pair of orphans,  
Adults now, his age at that.  
 One with curious eyes like a cat._  
 

* * *

  
Rhythms & Rhymes   
Chapter 9: What It Was All For   
 

* * *

   
 Kuroo’s mind wandered to his uncle. Bokuto and Sugawara had not asked why he had wanted the solitude, or why he wandered these halls. They seemed to understand, well enough, that he wanted to be alone. He took a deep breath and thought of his uncle. Dying, in this decrepit frozen wasteland. Alone. His uncle had not had many friends, from what he heard anyway. Although, he knew Sugawara had stayed by his bedside and made him laugh to his last day.   
   
 Kuroo ran his hand over the railing on the second floor, eyes closing as he felt the grittiness of the wood beneath his hand.   
   
 He sighed.   
   
 He stepped away from the railing, and towards the window.   
   
 The snow continued to fall.   
   
 Spring, but the snow continued to fall.   
   
 Kuroo decided he needed fresh air. He went downstairs and put on his coat.   
   
 “Going somewhere, Master?”   
   
 “No, Suga. Just a walk.”   
   
 “Ah.” Bokuto popped out of a doorway. “Want company, Kuroo?”   
   
 “No.” Kuroo let Sugawara help him put his coat on, and then he opened the door and walked into the frosty air.   
   
 Truth be told, spring was far warmer than fall or winter. Though it snowed, it barely bothered him. The wind did not howl; and, as soon as he stepped down the stairs to the pavement below, he glanced up.   
   
 Ah.   
   
 The snow had stopped?   
   
 Kuroo found it amusing, but he continued to walk, step by step, careful step by careful step. He noticed his mailbox to the end had a red flag pointing upwards. He thought it was cute, how the mailman would make the little flag point upwards if there was new mail. A cute Islander thing. He missed it.   
   
 He stepped closer to the mailbox and opened it. He pulled out a single letter.   
   
 It had Saeko’s family seal.   
   
 Kuroo frowned. He opened it up and his eyes widened.   
   
 The Saeko Manor was hosting a party.   
   
 Kuroo read the letter a few times. From what he had gathered, Ser Saeko had not hosted a party in over five years. From what he remembered, Ser Saeko was not even on the Island. He wanted to see her again, but he also knew she would not be there. He read the letter again, seeing that it was a personal invitation. To him.   
   
 “Madness.”   
   
 Footsteps approached him.   
   
 Kuroo put his two hands at the top of the letter, ready to tear it apart—   
   
 “Do not!”   
   
 Kuroo’s eyes widened. He looked away from the letter.   
   
 On the road leading up to his house, dressed in royal red fur, lined with white that fluffed at the collar, dressed to the highest of class, elegance, wonder—   
   
 “Kuro.” Kenma stood still. His eyes were wide. “Please… do not tear your invitation.”   
   
 “You.” Kuroo’s eyes widened. “You invited me?”   
   
 “Personally.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 It was a bit of a strange occurrence, to invite Kenma inside his home – as he had years ago. Bokuto wanted to make introductions—but Sugawara yanked him away after setting tea for two in the small living room, in front of a sofa, a small dark wood coffee table in front of them. A small fire in the hearth.   
   
 Kenma sipped his tea. “Ah. I forgot you liked it strong.”   
   
 “Yes.” Kuroo sipped his own tea. “Is it to your liking…? Sugawara boils a pot of hot water to dilute it if you prefer…”   
   
 “No thank you.” Kenma held the cup close, eyes looking downcast. “I too always prefered it strong.”   
   
 Kuroo swallowed hard and put his cup down on the little saucer provided. “I love your poems…?”   
   
 Kenma scoffed. “I hate them.”   
   
 Kuroo looked at him, blinking.   
   
 “Recently…” Kenma held his cup snugly. “Someone reminded me, of what it was like to live… to really, live. I wrote about hopelessness, people enjoyed it because they too felt hopeless… which is not, a bad thing, perhaps? No. What.” Kenma sighed. “What I mean to say… is that writing hopelessness is important, sometimes. When one is truly hopeless, they do not want someone to shine fake light upon them, pretend it is all better…”   
   
 Kuroo listened.   
   
 “It is often overlooked… the ability to sit in someone’s darkness, without forcing them to smile…” Kenma’s eyes softened. “But… sometimes writing about hope is more important.” He glanced to Kuroo. “No?”   
   
 Kuroo tensed. “Ah… um…” He looked down. “Maybe. No – certainly.”   
   
 “Kuro…” Kenma looked at him. “Come to the party.”   
   
 “The party…”   
   
 “Shouyou and I are hosting. Kageyama will be there too, of course.”   
   
 “Ah… Kageyama and I…”   
   
 “They have forgiven you,” Kenma murmured. “They are… I am, glad. That… you came back.”   
   
 Kuroo took a deep breath, eyes half-lidding.   
   
 “You… you really are, like a phantom… a memory of the past. But, maybe… that is not always a bad thing, to look back. We are ever-changing, Kuro. Our lives will go on. I am only thirty… I will live until my nineties. I have no right to say this is who I am, that I am stuck in my ways… I still have a long way to go, and a lot to learn.”   
   
 “Your… your mother told me something like that, once.”   
   
 “Did she?”   
   
 “Yes.”   
   
 “Damn woman,” Kenma murmured as he sipped his tea. “Always spouting wisdom to someone or another… It gets annoying when she is always right.”   
   
 “Well.” Kuroo laughed. “I, for one, am very thankful for her.”   
   
 Kenma, softly, smiled. “And I am thankful for you.”   
   
 Kuroo’s jaw shut with a clack.   
   
 Kenma laughed. Truly, Kenma laughed, loud and possibly abhorrent, unfiltered.   
   
 And Kuroo’s heart soared.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “So, uh…” Bokuto peeked into Kuroo’s room. “Who was that chick who just left?”   
   
 “Vulture.” Kuroo laughed. “And he is not a chick. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, my friend.”   
   
 Bokuto gawked. “Wait, Vulture!? The poet? Suga said you and him had some… er, backstory? History. And lots of it.”   
   
 “I will tell you all of it, my friend, but not now.” He scribbled his quill along the page. “Read this, Bo. Tell me what you think.”   
   
 Bokuto sighed and walked over. He read each line, line by line, and his eyes widened. “Sir Kuroo, are you trying to scare the hoots out of me?”   
   
 Kuroo looked up at him. “What?”   
   
 “It is a poem! By you! That is  _not_  depressing!”   
   
 “Bo!”   
   
 Bokuto chuckled to himself and took the page. He read it again, and again. “It feels so… young!”   
   
 Kuroo turned on the chair. “Young?”   
   
 “Young, and amateurish… Raw.” Bokuto snapped his head towards Kuroo. “I love it!”   
   
 “Yeah!?”   
   
 “Yeah!”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Do you rememb—”   
   
 Kenma jolted out of his chair.   
   
 “S-Sorry!” Kuroo took a step back. “I should have announced I came over! My… ah… My apologies.”   
   
 Kenma put a hand to his heart and glared. “Hello Ser Kuro. Welcome to my gardens again.” He stood up, dusting snowflakes off his pants, clearly trying not to smile. “What is it?”   
   
 Kuroo wore two coats, and an Ushanka—one of the bag hats. Despite the frost, his eyes looked alive in ways they had not in years. “Do you remember…” Kuroo clasped Kenma’s hands, finding them colder than his own. “Do you remember… in your poem, you said I made you feel young… In your first.”   
   
 “Yes.” Kenma nodded slowly. “What of it?”   
   
 “Why are we so glum, Kenma?”   
   
 Kenma tilted his head.   
   
 “We talk about youth, of vibrance, of energy… It is not energy, Kenma. It is not youth!” Kuroo took a deep breath. “It is hope.”   
   
 Kenma stuttered.   
   
 “What you said, about hope, it made me realise… Hope. Even the most withered trees will come alive with enough hope. Even the greatest storms pass with time, no?”   
   
 “Ah…” Kenma’s eyes softened. “Well, I suppose that is what it is.” He smiled brightly. “A dream, a future… the brightness of tomorrow…” He hummed quietly and made eye contact again. “Perhaps, in our poems, we need both the light and the dark to truly be understood.”   
   
 “Exactly so.” Kuroo grinned. “And when you can face the light and the dark of tomorrow… that is hope, is it not?”   
   
 “Why ask me?” Kenma gave a small smirk. “You are the poet, are you not?”   
   
 “Surely not the only poet here…”   
   
 Kenma laughed again, quietly, but airy and light.   
   
 And Kuroo’s heart took to new heights.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Move your cute ass, Ser Kageyama!”   
   
 “Leave the aesthetics of my ass out of this, Hinata!”   
   
 “Well you seemed content to plow into mine for like an hour last night—”   
   
  _“Hinata!”_    
   
 “Move your ass!” Hinata yelled as he flailed amidst the central room. “People will be here in less than an hour!”   
   
 “Dumbass!” Kageyama scoffed as he charged to set things up.   
   
 “Oi, oi, oi!” came a loud voice from the room. A woman with blond hair was wearing a rich black coat, holding a pipe in her hands. She took an inhale of it and released green-black smoke. “What is this, now? I am getting an invitation to my own house?”   
   
 “Ser Saeko!” Kageyama took her free hand and kissed it. “The community needs funds, so we decided to throw a party.”   
   
 “Mother!” Hinata hugged her tight before letting go. “We are going to make people laugh, and dance, and sing! We are going to bring joy into people’s lives!” He launched himself off in the other direction to set up more tables.   
   
 “Yes, yes…” Saeko took a cautious breath. “But listen, children, loves, a party is no small ordeal!”   
   
 “Mother,” came a quiet voice.   
   
 Saeko turned.   
   
 Kenma leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Do not worry… I have been… reigning them in. It will be done in time, I can assure you.”   
   
 Saeko opened her mouth to retort, but her eyes drifted past Kenma.   
   
 “Ser Saeko.” Kuroo gave a small bow. “Pleasure to see you again.”   
   
 “Kuroo.” Saeko blinked.   
   
 “Come now!” Sugawara yelled over them, “Get those tables set up!”   
   
 Daichi breathed loudly. “And I thought I was a slavedriver…”   
   
 “Daichi, I can be your slavedriver if you want but—for now move those tables!”   
   
 “Ah!” Yamaguchi ran to help. “The bar is all ready, so let me assist!”   
   
 “Well…” Saeko looked around and shrugged. “I may as well help!”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The party began, with lights, and weaving sashes, music and a toast. Food aplenty, wine even more. The donations also piled in, and Saeko was discussing with the mayor, that it was about time they updated the textbooks for the schools. The mayor agreed wholeheartedly. The party was – of course – a success.   
   
 The people did not wear clothes as fancy as they used to, as many had lost much during the plagues, but Kuroo loved each and every Seltur nonetheless. He felt, oddly, at home, in a way he had not in years.   
   
 “Kuroo, Kuroo,” Bokuto kept tugging his arm. “Who is that? Who… Who is that?”   
   
 “That?” Kuroo sighed. “That is the King, Bokuto. You know him. Very well.”   
   
 “No! Who, who is the King speaking to?”   
   
 “Ah. That is the mayor of this little town, Ser Keiji Akaashi.”   
   
 “Is. Is that a man? A woman?” Bokuto frowned. “I do not even care! They are gorgeous, Kuroo. Can I ask him to dance?”   
   
 “You cannot dance the Islander style,” Kuroo reminded. “And you had best not try, friend.”   
   
 “But, I uh…”   
   
 “I suppose you will have to stay on this Island a little longer, learn the dance.” Kuroo grinned ferally. “Then ask the mayor to be your partner. After all, he comes to every party. He is the mayor.”   
   
 Bokuto gasped. “I am doomed!”   
   
 “No, friend, actually you are indeed very hopeful.” Kuroo grinned. “When I was new to the Island, I wanted to learn the Islander’s way of dancing within a week or two. It was Ser Akaashi who taught me. He is quite a fine dancer.”   
   
 “I need!” Bokuto wiggled. “I need to get him to teach me how to dance!—But, no! Folly!” He put his hands over his face. “I fall again for the same trap I always do. I fall for the gorgeous ones, and then I am cursed by their black hearts…”   
   
 “Do not be so dramatic.” Kuroo rolled his eyes. “He does not have a black heart.”   
   
 “Impossible!” He moved his hands away. “Someone of such beauty and perfection must be holding back a dark and terrible secret. It is the law of the land, friend!”   
   
 “He does have a secret, though it is not a terrible one.”   
   
 “Will you tell me, friend?” Bokuto’s eyes pleaded. “Tell me what his darkness is, so I can sway myself into the light.”   
   
 “Well.” Kuroo grinned from ear to ear. “He is a little embarrassed by his intense obsession with owls.”   
   
 Bokuto  _gasped._    
   
 Lev broke away from Akaashi and walked towards Kuroo. “Friend! Can you tell me who Ser Saeko is?”   
   
 “Ah.” Kuroo saw her walking their way, so he put a hand on his shoulder and motioned towards her. “This is the master of the house, Ser Saeko.”   
   
 “Your Majesty.” Saeko dipped in a strong bow before straightening herself. “An honour, to have you in our home!”   
   
 “But what is this?” Lev smiled wide. “A party in town, and no one told me?”   
   
 “Ah, well,” Kuroo cut in. “I guess you could say it was, uh. Sudden inspiration.”   
   
 Lev raised an eyebrow, grinning even wider.   
   
 “Oh.” Kuroo looked back. “Lev, friend.” He pulled out a single sheet of paper and pressed it to Lev’s chest, patting it. “Read this, friend. It is a new poem.”   
   
 Lev smiled and took the paper. “Care to discuss it with me?”   
   
 “Later tonight, I will be your loyal subject. But this is my favourite song, so forgive my impertinence.”   
   
 “What is it about?” Lev grabbed Kuroo’s arm. “At least tell me so.”   
   
 “It is about a foolish man who thinks he is dancing with a stranger,” Kuroo explained, “But in truth the stranger ends up being the master of the house.” Kuroo gave a quick bow and turned away.   
   
 Kenma was walking towards him.   
   
 Kuroo offered his hand. “Shall we?”   
   
 “Mm.” Kenma dipped his head. “I would love to.”   
   
 They moved to the dance floor and—   
   
 The music started fast and riveting, deep notes climbing like a rising tide. It was a kind of dance where they faced each other, moving their arms and feet, dancing around each other, only rarely touching – mostly to twirl – but there was deep focus, speed, and sharp precision in every movement.   
   
 Kuroo and Kenma moved their arms and feet, dancing around each other, brushes of skin on skin, the occasional twirl. Speed, focus, sharp precision.   
   
 On the first set of four, Kenma raised his arms in curves. Kenma’s left hand was skyward, slightly bent, while the other came around in front of his eyes. When the beat struck—Kenma flourished, twisting his wrist in time.   
   
 Kuroo was a lucky man, he told himself, for seeing it up close.   
   
 Kenma wore the black sashes, and they looked good on him – Kuroo decided.   
   
 On the sixth move, Kuroo grabbed his yellow sashes—gifts from Kenma—and threw them upwards. He stomped with force.   
   
 On the twelfth move, where four and six intersected, the stomp preceded the flourish. They had stomped together.   
   
 And the floors rippled with force.   
   
 At twenty-four, where four and six intersected at the peak of the song, the stomp had even greater force, and the flourishes happened twice, once in each direction.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Bokuto had whisked Lev away, leaving Saeko alone. She did not mind. She was curious as to why this Ser Bokuto was asking about the mayor, but she supposed it was innocent enough. Her eyes, however, were focused on those who danced. Yes, Oikawa and Iwaizumi were a pair that had grace and force, Suguru and Terushima were a pair that had a sharpness to their movements, an extra step, but—   
   
 Kuroo and Kenma.   
   
 Saeko’s eyes softened.   
   
 Hinata stood next to her, smiling. “Kenma really is… the best dancer.”   
   
 “Mmm.” Saeko smiled. “I am not sure what happened while I was gone, but… ah. They seemed to have found their way.”   
   
 Hinata had a teasing smile as he asked, “And you?”   
   
 “Me?” Saeko scoffed. “I am far too old for romance. I am sixty-two, Shouyou.”   
   
 But another voice, from behind, said, “Sixty-two is not that old, Ser Saeko. I am certain you could still shake the floorboards with your stomp.”   
   
 Saeko’s face lost all composure as she spun around, eyes wide.   
   
 Akiteru stood, hands behind his back, eyes soft.   
   
 “Ser…” Saeko gasped. “I… What are you doing here?”   
   
 “Well…” Akiteru gave a sheepish smile. “Our Shouyou had written to me that if I did not come, he would let our newest deal fall through out of spite.”   
   
 Saeko glanced at Hinata.   
   
 Hinata raised a hand. “In my defence, it was Kenma’s idea.”   
   
 “Damn Vulture…”   
   
 Akiteru laughed. “I would say he is far more of a cat.”   
   
 Saeko crossed her arms. “Perhaps, but… Akiteru…”   
   
 “Dance with me, Saeko?”   
   
 Saeko uncrossed her arms, and her lips parted to let out a soft sigh. “Oh, Aki…” She offered her hand.   
   
 Akiteru took it. “Shouyou, look after Kei for me, would you?”   
   
 “Who?”   
   
 Akiteru motioned over his shoulder. “Kei. My nephew. He wanted to see the Island, but I fear he does not do well with crowds.”   
   
 “Ah.” Hinata blinked. “We have a cousin! Kei!”   
   
 “Tsukishima,” he corrected. “We are not close enough for you to use first names.”   
   
 “Ah, yes we are!” Hinata grinned. “We are cousins!”   
   
 Kei adjusted his glasses and sighed. “Why did I come along…?” But Saeko and Akiteru had already dispersed into the crowd.   
   
 “Kei!” Hinata grabbed his arm and pulled him. “Come this way!”   
   
 “Do not grab me, you insolent—”   
   
 “Tadashi!” Hinata yelled as he shoved Kei into one of the barstools. “Loosen him up, would you? He is family.”   
   
 “Ah.” Yamaguchi blinked. “I think, uh, Ser Kageyama was looking for you.”   
   
 “Oh!” Hinata perked up, and then ran off.   
   
 “That was a lie, I take it?” Kei simply murmured, “Thank you.”   
   
 “It was.” Yamaguchi brought out one of the wines from below. “Do you like reds?”   
   
 Kei eyed the bottle. “I do.”   
   
 “Then.” Yamaguchi smiled bright as he poured a small amount. “I overheard some. You can keep me company tonight, if you do not want to join the crowds.”   
   
 Kei grabbed his wine glass and hummed. “That sounds… satisfactory.”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “You had best stop distracting me,” warned Daichi.   
   
 “Come, come,” Sugawara said with a little purr as he kissed Daichi’s neck from behind. “You act as if this is on purpose.”   
   
 “Koushi Sugawara…”   
   
 “You’ve been working hard for hours – do you not think it is time to take a break? All the food is prepped for the next round, your sous-chefs have it all taken care of…” Suga snickered. “Come sneak away with me.”   
   
 Daichi took a deep breath and let out an even deeper sigh. He looked over his shoulder. “You. Are the worst.”   
   
 “The best.”   
   
 “No, truly. The worst.”   
   
 “They practically mean the same thing at this point – just come with me to the backroom for a little bit.”   
   
 “Well…” Daichi looked up. “If you  _insist…_ ”   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 “Well.” Kenma led Kuroo up to the balcony, where they watched the party unfold. “It seems this worked out rather well.”   
   
 Kuroo hummed as he leaned against the railings. “I have a feeling much of your childhood was blaming your impulsive tendencies on Hinata.”   
   
 Kenma scoffed, but did not deny it.   
   
 Kuroo turned to face him. “Kenma…”   
   
 Kenma looked up at him and took a deep breath.   
   
 Kuroo leaned in, and pressed their lips together.   
   
 Kenma brought his arms around Kuroo’s neck, and kissed him back.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 The next morning, Kuroo did not have to lead the horse much. Atsumu was a bigger horse than Shinsuke, but Atsumu was fine in following Shinsuke’s lead. Kageyama did not have to do much either, as it seemed Shinsuke understood Kageyama’s desires. Kuroo took the time to enjoy the landscape, hills of endless white, massive evergreens dusted with snow.   
   
 He saw little hares and horned owls. He wondered if he could shoot them on horseback if he had his rifle.   
   
 But they were not hunting, and they did not have their rifles.   
   
 This time, though Kuroo  _was_  sure what they were doing.   
   
 “Tobio!”   
   
 Kageyama and Kuroo both looked to the side.   
   
 Coming towards them at an impressive speed, Hinata rode a bigger horse than both of them. It came to a slow, and then a halt, just meters before them. Hinata grinned bright, his orange hair seeming like a torch on the white landscape. “Good morning Ser Kuroo!”   
   
 Kuroo opened his mouth to reply, but—   
   
 Riding behind Hinata on his own black stallion, Kenma glanced at him, making eye contact.   
   
 Kuroo took a deep breath, feeling his heart leap up.   
   
 “Hey, Tobio.” Hinata said as he grabbed Kageyama’s hand. “When do you want to get married? This summer?”   
   
 “Married?” Kageyama gawked. “You mean—”   
   
 “We never had our wedding.” Hinata smiled. “Want to do it in the summer?”   
   
 “… Yes.”   
   
 “Good! Now! I want to go fuck in that cave like we used to!”   
   
 “Wait, Hinata!”   
   
 “Why wait?”   
   
 Hinata tugged at the reins.   
   
 “Kageyama,” Kuroo interjected.   
   
 Kageyama paused, glancing over his shoulder. Hinata and Kenma too had stilled. Kageyama glanced at Kuroo. The two of them had not spoken much since their duel, not even with the ice melting between them.   
   
 “Thank you.”   
   
 Kageyama blinked. “For what?”   
   
 “For…” Kuroo’s eyes softened. “The river cracked beneath us…” His hands began to shake, but he stilled them. “If you had not kicked me off the ice…”   
   
 “Mm.” Kageyama averted his gaze. “Think nothing of it.”   
   
 “Kageyama—”   
   
 Kageyama graced him with a small smile. “I said think nothing of it, friend.”   
   
 “Well!” Hinata chuckled. “Then let us be off!” He pulled the reins of his horse and went charging off, Kageyama following suite.   
   
 Kenma sighed.   
   
 Kuroo laughed.   
   
 Kenma stilled for a moment, tilting his head as he looked down. He looked as though there was a question dancing on his lips, but he said nothing.   
   
   
 ~ ~ ~   
   
   
 Kuroo watched on as Kenma led them to a small glade through the trees, a small clearing in the forest. It was almost as though the trees formed a perfect circle. There was a single overturned log, and Kuroo guessed it had been there for many, many years. Kuroo glanced over.   
   
 “Kuro.”   
   
 “Yes?”   
   
 Kenma took a cautious seat and looked at him.   
   
 Kuroo sat beside him.   
   
 “What did you mean… Kageyama kicked you off the ice?”   
   
 Kuroo hummed and made a small clicking sound with his lips. “When we had our duel… he was angry, yes… but when he realised the ice would crack beneath us… he kicked me aside, so I would not fall in the frozen waters.”   
   
 Kenma looked down.   
   
 Kuroo glanced sidelong at him. “Kenma?”   
   
 “I… did not know. I had thought…”   
   
 Kuroo took a breath, slowly, through his nose.   
   
 “I am… very quick to judge. And to anger.”   
   
 “And I am a fool,” Kuroo murmured, “Who is afraid to be open with someone who is open to me.”   
   
 “But you opened.”   
   
 “And you forgave.”   
   
 Kenma said nothing, but ever-so-slightly smiled.   
   
 Kuroo took his victory, grinning.   
   
 “I cannot promise to be an easy love,” he warned, “And I cannot promise my fickle heart will not have its storms… But.” His eyes met Kuroo’s. “There is one thing I can give you, if you will have me.”   
   
 “And what would that be?”   
   
 “Hope.”   
   
 Kuroo let their gloved fingers interweave and intertwine. “Kenma… That is exactly what I need.” 


	10. Appendix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: While I drafted and redrafted the story so much that I don't think it resembles it at all anymore, the original inspiration for R&R came from come from a play, which was inspired by an opera, which was inspired by a poem by Alexander Pushkin. As such, I decided the poems that were going to be in this story should follow his Pushkin stanza's rhyme scheme. Just as a little tip of my hat to, erm, some dead Russian poet y'know? 
> 
> The poems that came at the intros of each chapter were on purposely out of order, so they're compiled (as well as with others) here in Chapter 10: The Appendix. 
> 
> Honestly, thank you guys for the support... I went out of my comfort zone with this one, trying new things and working with poetry (which I have never had any confidence in). Huge shoutout to my beta Kookie for editing this, and a thank you to Snow for telling me not to give up when I felt like it was too dynamic for me to work on. Rika and Kristin also get shoutouts for being good beans, and honestly thank you to all of my readers lmao. 
> 
> You can always hit me up on [Tumblr (Remembrance123)](remembrance123.tumblr.com), [Twitter (Remembrance123)](https://twitter.com/Remembrance123), Skype (remmy-rem), Discord (RemRem#8656) or even here on AO3! I'm going to be posting a fic/chapter/update once a week (either Saturday or Sunday), so if you enjoyed my writing style feel free to keep supporting! Next week I'm going to be posting a KageHina sci-fi fic I have been working on since 2014 (it's my baby, I swear), and I would really love to see you guys support me there too if that's something you think you would be interested!
> 
> But, yeah! I hope you enjoy the last little glimpse of this world, <3

* * *

   
 Rhythms & Rhymes   
 Appendix: The Battle of Poets (Poem)   
 

* * *

  
   
  
   
 VERSE 1 – CHAPTER 9   
   
 In a frosty littletown of differences   
 Was the birth of a man.   
 Of a mixed life, upbringings, and preferences.   
 For he left his clan.   
   
 Gone to live in kingdoms   
 Losing his many freedoms   
 But at thirty – there was a death   
 His uncle exhaled his last breath   
   
 The man inherited fortunes   
 Of a land he did not know   
 And to this place he had to go.   
   
 That is how he met the pair of orphans,   
 Adults now, his age at that.   
 One with curious eyes like a cat.   
  
   
   
 VERSE 2 – CHAPTER 8   
   
 The man and that cat danced away   
 He impressed with his skills of his craft   
 His many achievements on display–   
 But to the cat, it was just a draft.   
   
 The cat saw what was truly underneath   
 For the man’s smile was false teeth.   
 The cat saw the pathetic loneliness grow   
 As if the man was on death’s row   
   
 But the cat had compassion   
 For he too once lost it all   
 In the burning fiery fall   
   
 The cat lost much in ashen   
 So his heart wanted to know it   
 Whatever it was that haunted this poet   
  
   
   
 VERSE 3 – CHAPTER 4   
   
 But there are strength in demons,   
 That on the mind they haunt.   
 Anger brought out like beacons,   
 And each other they taunt.   
   
 What was built is now breaking,   
 Gentle mornings now pain and aching.   
 It is done. It is war.   
 What was it all for?   
   
 The battle of poets,   
 Destroy, break, untie - more.   
 What was it all for?   
   
 The battle of poets,   
 The man had too many flaws.   
 The cat had too many claws.   
   
  
   
 VERSE 4 – CHAPTER 5   
   
 The cold winter is everlasting   
 Six years, came and went.   
 Their smiles and laughs contrasting   
 Hearts twisted, shattered - bent.   
   
 Their meetings are years apart   
 Attempts are made to outsmart   
 Each other, as if they are foe.   
 As if they’re on death row.   
   
 The cat’s anger is still flaring   
 For his closest have been hurt   
 By foolishness too curt.   
   
 An engagement wearing, tearing   
 They do not share their bliss.   
 They would not even kiss.   
  
   
   
 VERSE 5 – CHAPTER 1   
   
 But in seeing connection,   
 The cat feels his heart beat.   
 Like an ancient reflection,   
 He remembers the taste of sweet.   
   
 Yes, the man had made mistakes   
 But it was the cat that had caused earthquakes.   
 In the reflection of a frozen lake   
 The cat’s fiery anger feels fake.   
   
 He remembers the dances   
 Movement, rush, music - Heat.   
 Warm meals in a forest glade they eat.   
   
 All their little touches and advances.   
 The first time he let himself fall.   
 The first time he gave it his all.   
   
  
   
 VERSE 6 – CHAPTER 6   
   
 But there are strength in demons   
 That on the mind they haunt   
 Anger brought out like beacons   
 And each other they taunt.   
   
 What was built is now breaking   
 Gentle mornings now pain and aching   
 It is done, it is war   
 What was it all for?   
   
 The battle of poets,   
 Destroy, break, untie - more.   
 What was it all for?   
   
 The battle of poets,   
 Yes, his lover had many flaws   
 But why did he use his claws?   
   
  
   
 VERSE 7 – CHAPTER 7   
   
 To be filled with endless wanting   
 A shock to the very core   
 Realisation slowly dawning   
 Acting like a whore   
   
 To have never given into needing   
 An urge that needs to be feeding   
 To give into being mad   
 Acting like a young lad   
   
 To throw away all sanity,   
 Take everything of me   
 Take everything of me   
   
 To give into humanity   
 Take everything of me   
 Take everything of me   
   
  
   
 VERSE 8 – CHAPTER 3   
   
 This hearts beats for old times.   
 Those days are gone.   
 Forgive those olden crimes?   
 No one is romance’s pawn.   
   
 Was it not to be everlasting?   
 These two lives are contrasting.   
 Must it be a clash between foe?   
 It is as if this is death’s row.   
   
 The land is rubble and breaking   
 The lowest of every low   
 A waste, a theatrical show   
   
 The softest mornings now aching   
 Humiliated to the core,   
 What was it all for?   
   
  
   
 VERSE 9 – CHAPTER 2   
   
 Yes, there are strength in demons,   
 That on the mind they haunt,   
 Anger brought out like beacons,   
 And each other we taunt.   
   
 But when anger is crumbled,   
 And we must be humbled,   
 We stand side by side.   
 Hate withered and dried.   
   
 The dance of poets,   
 To put away hauntings strife.   
 A chance to rebuild again in life   
   
 The dance of poets,   
 Reconnection, heat, fire - More.   
 This is what it was for.   
   
   
   
  
 

* * *

   
 Rhythms & Rhymes   
 Appendix: Kuroo’s Poem   
 

* * *

  
   
   
 SHALLOW ROCKS   
   
 At a lighthouse, the wind is violent;   
 A man on the edge, looking at the docks.   
 His mind is racing, but heart so silent.   
 He ponders throwing himself on those shallow rocks.   
   
 His family discussed all his failings,   
 They skipped that he never built railings,   
 Oh. The fall would be so sweet.   
 And death he would easily greet.   
   
 But he knows these thoughts are malfunctions,   
 The word of his family is wrong.   
 He is – indeed he is – strong.   
   
 He is more than his dysfunctions,   
 He was not made to crash on sea foam.   
 Instead… the man heads home.   
   
   
   
 

* * *

   
 Rhythms & Rhymes   
 Appendix: Kageyama’s Poem   
 

* * *

  
   
   
 SUNFIRE   
   
 I am struck by embers burning,   
 Blazing like flaming coal,   
 For his radiance, I am yearning.   
 His eyes pierce into my soul.   
   
 He moves fluidly like a dancer   
 And I know he is my answer,   
 To the questions I myself ask—   
 Of with who can I take off my mask.   
   
 His heart makes me unwinding,   
 It is not on a whim   
 That I belong to him.   
   
 To his smaller frame I am grinding,   
 His kisses so sugary sweet,   
 But his body—scorching heat.   
   
   
   
 

* * *

   
 Rhythms & Rhymes   
 Appendix: Hinata’s Poem   
 

* * *

  
   
   
 SERENITY // INSECURITY   
   
 He writes with quill in hand,   
 He scribes poems to win my affection   
 But if he saw the secrets of the land   
 my feelings are just a reflection.   
   
 He tells me I am like a fire   
 and fear I do of him I tire.   
 His string of words are like rivers…   
 and mine are as lovely as livers.   
   
 He talks as if I embody serenity…   
 Though my hair colour may be rare,   
 I am just an unpoetic Ser.   
   
 He talks as if I am a perfect identity.   
 As if I am a gift, a dove…   
 But I can only give love.   
   
   
   
 

* * *

   
 Rhythms & Rhymes   
 Appendix: Bokuto’s Poem   
 

* * *

  
   
   
 DANCING OWLS   
   
 In a little forest, hidden in shrubbery,   
 Many of these beasts gather as one.   
 Some slim, others large and rubbery.   
 This, a secret known to none.   
   
 They spin and dance suspiciously,   
 Smiling to themselves, capriciously,   
 These owls are birds of prey.   
 With feathers white, black, and grey.   
   
 If interrupted, they disappear!   
 They are gone one and all;   
 They will not answer to your call.   
   
 But, together, they return sincere,   
 They will spin and dance,   
 In their nightsong trance!   
   
   
   
 

* * *

   
 Rhythms & Rhymes   
 Appendix: Kenma’s Poem   
 

* * *

  
   
   
 DAWN   
   
 To be filled with endless wanting   
 A shock to the very core   
 Realisation slowly dawning   
 Acting like a whore   
   
 To have never given into needing   
 An urge that needs to be feeding   
 To give into being mad   
 Acting like a young lad   
   
 To throw away all sanity,   
 Take everything of me   
 Take everything of me.   
   
 To give into humanity,   
 Take everything of me   
 Take everything of me. 


End file.
